


Something We Never Dreamt We Could Have

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [27]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Expressions of Homophobia, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In July, 2012, the Marriage Equality Act has been law in New York State for about a year, but there are forces arrayed throughout the United States to deny some citizens the civil right that most enjoy. Neal’s outrage over comments against gay marriage spark a sea change in him, and little does he know that his life-partner of nearly thirty years has been thinking along those very same lines.  Neither man realizes that there’s a couple of wanna-be cupids working to make things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something We Never Dreamt We Could Have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kanarek13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanarek13/gifts), [coffeethyme4me](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=coffeethyme4me).



> The trigger for writing this story was the [Chick-fil-A debacle](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/26/us/gay-rights-uproar-over-chick-fil-a-widens.html?smid=pl-share), which STILL pisses me off. Because despite the advances in Marriage Equality, bigots are free to claim "religious freedom" for their right to discriminate.

****  
_Monday_  


His hair sleep-mussed and still wearing his bathrobe, Neal tossed down the day’s edition of the New York Times in obvious agitation. Peter had, as was his habit, snagged the section with the crossword puzzle, and was hard at work filling in the answers. It was Monday, and the puzzle was barely a challenge. He looked up at Neal’s sound of disgust.

“What’s the matter?”

“This – this – this –” Neal sputtered in outrage. 

His partner of nearly thirty years pointed to a headline: _“Chick-fil-A Thrust Back Into Spotlight on Gay Rights”._ “I still don’t get it – how does one marriage threaten anyone else’s? Why can’t people just live and let live?”

Peter sighed. They had had this argument – discussion – whatever – dozens of times. Every time that some politician made a negative comment about same-sex marriage, his partner went a little crazy. “Do you really want an answer to that?”

“No.” Neal shook his head, exasperated. “There are no good answers to crap like this.” He got up, kissed Peter on the temple and went upstairs to shower and get ready for the day. 

Peter looked at Neal’s retreating figure and couldn’t help but smile. This had been their weekday routine for the better part of two decades. Peter would shower and dress first, Neal would make coffee, retrieve the Times (which didn’t take that much effort, since the doorman had it brought to their door). Depending on the season, they’d start their day with a discussion of the previous day’s ballgames (Neal didn’t care for football, so Peter kept his thoughts about the Jets and Giants to himself), then segue into the harder news, and while Neal fed him choice bits from the Opinion and Op-Ed pages, he’d do the crossword puzzle. They’d have their first cup of coffee and a light breakfast, then Neal would go shower and get dressed.

As familiar as the routine was, Peter never failed to appreciate it, just as he could never fail to see the bullet scars on his chest and shoulder. He had learned the hard way not to take life for granted. Peter sipped his coffee and after finishing the puzzle, he snagged the section of the Times that Neal had tossed aside.

_“As it relates to society in general, I think we are inviting God’s judgment on our nation when we shake our fist at him and say, ‘We know better than you as to what constitutes a marriage.’ ”_

A ripple of disgust turned the taste of his coffee sour in his mouth. Neal’s outrage was more than justified. Marriage was a civil right, a civil matter. No religious ceremony was legally binding unless the celebrant was granted the right by the state to perform marriages.

_Ah, to hell with it. Getting angry wasn’t going to fix this problem._

Peter tossed the paper back on the table and ambled into the bedroom. He didn’t have anything urgent on deck for this morning, and he was sure that Neal didn’t either. At forty-something-or-other, he thought he was supposed to be experiencing a diminishing sex drive, yet some days (like today) he felt like a goat; ready for sex at the least provocation, and he certainly didn’t question the good fortune that he still had the libido of his seventeen year-old self.

He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, slipped off his shoes and relaxed on the bed, ankles crossed. One hand was tucked behind his head; the other massaging his pleasantly hardening dick through his trousers. Waiting for Neal to get out of the shower, his mind drifted to all the places in the office where they’d had sex. There was the file room on sub-level four. The supply closet shared by White Collar and Forensic Accounting (it was the only one that had a lock on the _inside_ of the door). They fucked more than a few times on the conference room table after hours, and then eye-fucked each other through the next morning’s meetings. He had Neal in the men’s room on thirty-two, Neal had him under the table in the interrogation room. 

Their occasional sexual risk-taking still had the power to surprise him. Maybe it was because they had to spend so many years pretending they barely knew each other at work. On the other hand, it could just be that he and Neal had a kink for sex in risky places. Simple as that.

Neal came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, another one working his hair dry. He was still a god amongst men – broader at the shoulder than he was at seventeen, but just as hard-bodied – and Peter’s mouth (and other parts) watered at the sight of him.

“Anyone tell you that you’re a goat.” Neal stared at the impressive bulge in Peter’s trousers. 

“Actually, I was just thinking the exact same thing.” Peter replied, a smirk twisting his lips. “And it’s not like you’re never ready for a good fucking at the drop of a hat. Speaking of which …” A few years back, Neal had taken to wearing vintage headwear. Peter had teased him – told him it made him look like a cartoon. And then proceeded to nail him against the door.

“No, I am not putting on my hat. It’s seven-twenty in the morning, a little too early for kinky sex games.”

“Me thinks thou dost protest too much.” Peter stared pointedly at Neal’s towel, which had formed its own impressive bulge. 

Neal tossed aside the towel he was using to dry his hair, then slowly untucked the one around his waist, holding it in place for a few seconds before letting it slip through his fingers. Neal’s grin was pure sex and Peter reacted accordingly. 

His voice thick with arousal, he commanded, “No argument, we’re calling in late today.” 

“Nothing like being subtle.” It was Neal’s turn to smirk.

“As if there’s anyone at the office who doesn’t know about us.” 

“I think there are a few probies who haven’t been clued in yet.” 

Peter’s mind really wasn’t on office gossip, or whether the latest batch of shiny new agents knew that their SAIC was life partners with the SAIC a few doors down the hallway. He was more interested in getting that all-too-coy SAIC in bed, underneath him.

But Neal was playing hard to get. That little shit danced out of his reach and Peter surged out of bed. He was, unbelievably, chasing Neal around the bedroom. Until Neal let himself be caught. “Gotcha!” 

He threw him on the bed, face down. Neal laughed, the sound joyful, breathless. “Yeah, you got me, copper – what are you going to do to me now?”

Peter leaned over his lover’s body, spread out like a fallen angel amongst the sheets. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg me for mercy. And then I’m going to fuck you again.” 

Neal shivered at the words. “What’s my crime, Agent Burke?” His face was turned to Peter, blue eyes glowing.

“You’re a thief, and now you’re going to pay the price.” Peter wondered at himself, at this crazy dialogue, but he was so damn aroused, his dick could crack stone. He considered getting out the handcuffs, but instead reached for the night table drawer – for the condom and the lube. Until Neal stunned him.

“Fuck me bareback.”

Peter stilled at that breathless command.

“Don’t use a condom, Peter.”

All thoughts of role-play left his brain. They’d been all but married for almost three decades; they never fucked around, they never stepped out on each other. But coming of age in the plague years had made some habits unbreakable. They hadn’t done it without condoms since their freshman year in college. Despite their absolute monogamy, bare-backing was something they rarely considered.

“Please.” That one word, that breathless plea, undid him.

Neal lifted his hips and Peter captured them between his palms, his thumbs curving in to separate those tight cheeks. “You’ve already slicked yourself?”

“Yeah – and I’m still loose from last night. Come on, Peter – fuck me.” Neal whined and Peter slipped a thumb in. 

Yeah, Neal was just like he liked him, tight enough and slippery. Peter unzipped himself, his cock practically erupting out of his shorts. He pressed the head against Neal’s hole, his thumb still tucked in. It was so difficult to take it slow, not to ram himself inside, not to do as he threatened and fuck Neal so hard he’d have trouble walking.

Even though Neal wanted it like that.

No, Peter savored it. The heat, the slide of skin against skin, the crazy sensation of the sharp edge of his thumbnail against his own dick, was incredible. He wanted to savor, to go slow, to drive them both to madness.

Neal pushed back against him, and Peter pulled out his thumb, better to concentrate on giving Neal as much pleasure as he was receiving.

“Faster – damn it, fuck me faster.”

“No.” He sank into Neal’s ass, up to his balls and held himself there, grinding slowly against him. There was joy in this, this taking and giving. Peter leaned over, still dressed, pressing himself along the length of Neal’s back, resting his head against Neal’s shoulder.

Neal squirmed and struggled against Peter’s hold, trying to get some leverage, some friction. “Damn you.”

“And yet you complain that I take you like a marauder. Don’t you like going slow? I like this – I like being naked inside you.” Peter reached around; Neal’s cock was burning hot in his palm. He stroked him, toyed with him. “You always tell me I have no self-control.” 

“Well, now’s not the time to prove me wrong.”

Peter had to chuckle, which apparently transmitted through his dick, because Neal shivered and bucked up against him.

He pulled Neal up, and Neal grasped the edge of the headboard. _Good boy._

Peter fucked Neal like Neal wanted to be fucked, hard and fast. He was jack-hammering into him, his hips whipping, cock pistoning. He still couldn’t get over the heat, the silken feel of skin against skin. Neal whined and clamped down. Peter lost all control, the edges of his vision turning white as he emptied himself into Neal, nearly passing out from the pleasure.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was close to ten-thirty before they made it to the office. Neal thought he saw Frank-the-Guard wink at them. Peter was, as usual, oblivious to things like that. His lover was a man who strode across the world like he owned it – never noticing the little things until he had to.

Neal checked email and messages on his cell phone while waiting for the elevator. Even though he had nothing urgent on his desk, there was always something to deal with. Besides, concentrating on email was a distraction from all the lovely sensations still running through his body.

Neal cast his eyes towards Peter, similarly engrossed. It never failed to amaze him that this man was his. He wasn’t blind about his own attractions – but Peter … 

_How do I love thee?  
Let me count the ways._

Neal couldn’t restrain a sigh. Peter looked over to him. “What’s the matter?”

He ducked his head, hiding a smile. “Oh, nothing.”

Peter’s eyes flashed with a knowing gleam. “Ah, okay.”

A light flashed over the third car in the bank of elevators. “You coming, Burke?”

That gleam flashed just a little brighter.

The door was closing when a familiar voice called out, asking them to hold the door. It was one of his agents, Helen Chen. She slipped into the car and slapped the button for the twenty-first floor before noticing that Neal was in the car, too. 

“Oh – good morning, Sir.” She turned and saw Peter. “Sir.”

Peter nodded at her, but otherwise remained absorbed by his email.

Neal liked Helen the best of all of the agents under his command. Over the years, he had the chance to supervise quite a few probies, and no matter how smart they were, he was careful not to make the same mistakes that Hughes made with him (even though everything did work out in the end). His new agents weren’t relegated to simply coffee-and-file fetching, but they weren’t given their own case files, either. At least not right away.

That Helen had degrees in forensic accounting and art history made her doubly useful. It didn’t hurt that she was fluent in French, Russian and Mandarin, and had a way of charming herself into all sorts of situations. She reminded Neal of himself – at least his younger self. His own brief was extremely eclectic: most of his work was with White Collar, but he ran the tiny Art Crimes unit, too. Plus consulting with other divisions as needed. 

They worked well together, and had for the last two years. She started as a probie, so fresh out of Quantico that there was still Yellow Brick Road mud on her shoes. And by the end of the first month, she impressed him enough that he knew he’d want to keep her as his right hand after her probationary period was done. Which was a first. 

The elevator made a few stops before landing at their floor, but no one spoke. It was a rule that Peter had imposed on all his staff – no business was to be discussed in elevators, open corridors or any place where civilians could be listening. Neal had adopted it as well, and he could see that Helen was simply dying to tell him something – she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her smile was infectious, and in the brief minutes it took for their elevator to reach their destination, Neal was grinning too. 

The doors opened and he gestured for her to precede him, catching Peter’s eye and giving him a quick wink before parting company.

Helen was talking so quickly, he only caught one in every three words, but those words made the hair stand up on the back of his neck – “Nazi” – “Music box” – “Amber”.

“Slow down, slow down – speak in complete sentences. And have a little respect for these aged ears.” He unlocked his office door, waited for Helen to charge in ahead of him, and finally took a seat in his own chair. “Now – what’s going on?”

“Okay, sorry. Remember George Devore?”

“Of course I do. Chased that son of a bitch for three years. Bond forgery, racketeering, art theft. He ‘recreated’ some rather spectacular Renaissance bronze medals that belonged to the Smithsonian. One of his replicas was made out of chocolate. He’s doing four and change in Hawthorne Fed for that. ”

“Got a call from him this morning – he wanted to talk to someone about this.” Helen pushed a file over his desk. “I wanted to wait for you, but …”

Neal understood. “Not a problem – you took Agent Garces with you?”

Helen sighed. “Of course, I’m not stupid.”

He just raised an eyebrow at her. “Okay – what did Devore want?”

“He says he’s got a line on that.” Helen pointed to the folder.

Neal opened the folder and whistled at the detailed color drawing. “Nice – tell me about it.”

“It’s supposed to be _the_ amber music box, the one from Catherine the Great’s Amber Room at the Ekaterina Palace in Tsarskoye Selo. It was looted by the Nazis – but you already know about that. Devore says he knows where it is, and it’s the key to something bigger than anything we could imagine.”

“Hmmmm, could also be a wild goose chase. You need to do some more research on this – check all the art registries, call Mischa Popolov at the Russian Art Institute, Adele Schiller at the Smithsonian …”

“All the usual suspects?”

Neal nodded. “And before that – ” He held out his mug.

“We have interns for that.” She made a moue of distaste.

“I’ve got something better, I’ve got you.” 

Helen stalked off in a mock huff, and when she came back with his coffee, he took a sip and grimaced. She laughed at him. “You really should know better – this stuff will kill you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shooed her out and let the morning catch up with him.

The crap with Chick-fil-A still bothered him. There was nothing he could do about it, but it still bothered him. He swung his chair around and looked out over the lower Manhattan skyline. The sky was hazy with summer heat, the rooftops shimmering. Gazing out but not seeing anything, Neal felt a little helpless. _One step forward, two steps back._ He had the right to marry here, in his home state, but just across the river, friends couldn’t – and if they came to New York and got married here – there was no guarantee that the rights afforded to them by their marriage would be recognized.

Which set up a whole other train of thought. They had friends who had done the civil union thing in Vermont, they attended a dozen weddings in Massachusetts and literally countless commitment ceremonies here in New York. Truth be told, he hated all of those commitment ceremonies. They were just a big gay excuse for a party and had no legal standing. Besides, Neal figured that two-thirds of the couples who went through that dog and pony show didn’t last a year anyway – so why did they even bother? He and Peter were committed to each other, and had been for more than half their lives. They didn’t need to stand up in front of a bunch of people to make it real.

Neal could never forget that day in a D.C. hotel room, Peter seducing him with poetry. 

_For the ends of Being and ideal Grace._  
I love thee to the level of everyday's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for right  
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise  
I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

They had said all they needed to that day. There was no need for a commitment ceremony; they didn’t need to mouth vows that were redundant to promises already made. 

But still, there were well-meaning questions. Uncle Joe – Peter’s dad – recently asked him why they hadn’t tied the knot, now that they could. Neal had shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to give you grandchildren.”

Joe had glared at him and shook his head. “You and Peter have rights, opportunities that no one could have imagined even just a decade ago. You’re squandering them.”

Neal had sighed. “We’re happy the way we are.”

The truth was, though, that Neal wanted to be married. He wanted what everyone one else had. But Peter never seemed interested in being married – he liked the status quo. It wasn’t like Peter was allergic to commitment – it was just … just what?

A light bulb went on – maybe Peter was waiting, maybe he didn’t want to be the one to do the asking.

Neal sat up, he got up, paced the length of the tiny office, ran his suddenly sweaty hands through his hair. His stomach clenched in agitation. Was this all _his_ fault?

Well, whether or not it was, it was something he could rectify easily enough. Maybe pop the question over a romantic dinner. Peter wasn’t the big, romantic gestures kind of guy, but he’d appreciate the effort.

Or he could just be nonchalant about the whole thing, work it into their daily routine, over morning coffee and the newspaper. He’d ask him as casually as if he were reading the sports scores to him. _”Yankees beat the Angels, five-zip, and will you marry me?”_

Neal couldn’t help but smile at the thought.

Which lead to another idea. They had tickets for a home game on Sunday; Neal had gotten them seats on the first base line. How hard would it be to have his proposal put up on the Jumbotron? People do that all the time.

Or maybe Peter wouldn’t like something quite so … well, public. Besides, Uncle Joe would be with them, too. How romantic would it be to ask Peter to marry him with his dad right there?

And what about a ring? Should he even give Peter a ring? They both had had their ten-year service pins made into rings, but they didn’t wear them all the time – too big and clunky and not very aesthetically appealing. But maybe Peter would wear something tasteful.

Neal thought for a moment or two, pulled out his cell phone and made a call. 

“Hey there, Uncle Joe.”

_“Neal! Everything okay?”_

“Everything’s fine – really good. Did I wake you?” Peter’s dad had moved into an adult living community last year, a few months after Peter’s mom had passed away.

_“It’s nearly noon – what do you think I do all day, nap?”_

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

_“I may be eighty-two years old, but I’ve still got all my marbles. And don’t you forget that, young man.”_

“No, sir – I won’t. Sorry.”

_“Sorry my ass. Now, why are you calling me in the middle of the day if everything’s all right?”_

Neal took a deep breath. “Remember that conversation we had a few months ago? The one about rights and opportunities?”

Joe let out a shout of laughter. _“Yeah.”_

“What would you say if I wanted to make an honest man out of your son?”

_“Other than ‘It’s about damn time’?”_

Neal grinned. “Okay. Okay.” He took another deep breath. “I was wondering … and feel free to say no …but could I have Aunt Cathy’s engagement ring? I’d like to use the stone for a ring for Peter.”

Joe didn’t answer right away. _“I’m sorry, son. I don’t have it anymore.”_

Neal tamped down the curl of disappointment. “Ah. Okay. Not a problem – I was just being a little sentimental.”

Neither man said anything for a moment. Joe finally spoke, _“Nothing wrong with sentiment. When are you going to ask him?”_

“Not quite sure. I’m thinking …” Neal ran through his ideas.

Joe told him how he had popped the question to Peter’s mom, the traditional bended knee proposal after coming home from a date. _“Have you thought about that?”_

Neal had to admit he hadn’t. 

_“My son appreciates the classics. They never go out of style.”_

“I don’t know if we’re going to have a formal wedding, but if we do, will you give me away?”

_“Neal – isn’t that every father’s dream?”_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter had completely forgotten about the appointment he had in Midtown – on Forty-Seventh Street, to be precise. When his mom died and Dad decided to sell the house, he had given Peter a number of things, including his mother’s engagement ring.

_

“What am I going to do with this?” The ring was pretty, about two carets, in a traditional Tiffany setting. Maybe he’d have the stone reset into something, a tie tack, he considered. Something to give to Neal.

“Maybe make this into an engagement ring?” His father’s tone was casual. “Don’t you think it’s time you and Neal got married?”

Peter stiffened. “It’s crossed my mind.”

“It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”

“And it’s not like Neal and I are going to have children.”

“You could adopt.”

Peter shook his head. “And what type of life would our child have? Neal and I work more than we’re home. We’d be terrible parents, you know that.”

His father sighed heavily. “I know, but for the record, I don’t think you’d be terrible parents. And can you blame a man for wanting grandchildren?”

The question set up a cascade of difficult feelings in Peter. He loved his father so much; he missed his mother even more. They had given him _everything_ – love and acceptance unconditionally. He blinked hard to keep the tears away. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey – none of that. This old man’s just being foolish.” 

Peter took a deep breath, then another – steadying himself.

“But you still should think about getting married.”

Peter’s reply was slow in coming. “Years ago, I thought about asking Neal if he’d do a commitment ceremony. We’d just been to one, and I couldn’t help thinking about how wonderful it would be to stand up in front of everyone and make those promises to each other. We got home and Neal commented – okay – ranted at how ridiculous those ceremonies were. How they meant absolutely nothing. Kind of took the wind out of my sails. So I never brought it up.”

“I can see his point, Peter. But things are different now.”

“I know, I know.” Peter looked at the ring in its worn velveteen box. It wasn’t a big stone, but it was perfect.

_

For six months, Peter had dithered about what to do – about asking Neal to marry him – about the ring. Of course, his father was right, he and Neal should be married. No commitment ceremony, not even a civil union, would mean what marriage meant. He had taken the ring to a jeweler he knew – actually an old friend of Neal’s – and had it set into something he hoped Neal would like.

He checked his calendar. The rest of the day was clear; he’d head up to the jeweler’s and pick up the ring. But having it wasn’t going to solve the bigger dilemma: when and how to ask Neal the most important question of their lives.

_Will you marry me?_

It took about an hour to complete his errand, it would have been longer if he had stayed and chatted. The ring was beautiful, perfect in its elegance. Peter had his mother’s stone placed in an understated platinum mounting, the diamond bezel mounted, the setting brushed-finished. It was something he could see Neal wearing with pride, not only because it was a gift, but because it was something of beauty. He might lightly mock Neal’s sartorial pleasures, but he understood them. He appreciated them.

They were as much a part of Neal as his blue eyes, his perpetual five o’clock shadow and his intellectual brilliance.

It was a little after three when he got back to the office. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. His second-in-command, Stephen Anderson, was at the quarterly budget meeting, as was Neal. But then he noticed three people in the conference room. One was AD Malloy, the other two men he didn’t know.

Malloy must have seen him come into the office. He went out onto the balcony and gave him a two-finger summons. “Burke – conference room – now.”

Peter wasn’t particularly fond of Assistant Director Malloy, who was too much of a political animal and not enough of an agent. That he ordered him about in front of his staff set his temper on edge.

He joined them in the conference room, and to his increasing irritation, Malloy had taken up the position at the head of the table. Peter tried to rationalize that it was his right as Assistant Director in charge of the New York field office. The other two agents sat in the chairs to his right. Peter took up the remaining power position at the other end of the table, in front of the large monitor with its glowing FBI logo. _So there_.

The posturing was all for nothing. Malloy simply introduced the two men as FBI agents – Sylvester DiNapoli and Walter O’Donnell, both out of the Kansas City field office – and left.

“What brings you to New York City, gentlemen? And more importantly, to White Collar?” 

“We have a case that you may be able to provide some support on.” DiNapoli slid a file down the table. Peter caught it before it hit the floor. He should have let it drop and made the junior agent, O’Donnell, come pick it up. But he really wasn’t that petty.

He skimmed the file. The case was interesting and right up his alley. A fairly typical boiler room scheme, but the players were unique. Instead of the junior Gordon Geckos and Wall Street Wannabes, the players were the Harvard and Yale educated sons of the leading Kansas City organized crime families. Peter couldn’t hold back a whistle. “Family money backing them?”

DiNapoli explained. “Of course. The operation’s mobile. They set up shop, run the boiler room scam for six months, sell out – leaving destitution and devastation in their wake.”

“So they’re setting up here in New York? Have you talked to Organized Crime?”

DiNapoli made a face. “Your locals aren’t interested in taking this on – their plates are too full. AD Malloy suggested we work with you.” He continued. “This time, it looks to be something a little more than just a mob-funded scam. Our inside connection tells us that there’s a big-time Wall Street player involved, which can take the scheme to a whole other level.”

Peter had to agree – if a legitimate brokerage got involved, the losses could dwarf what Madoff did. “You have someone on the inside – someone you’ve turned?”

“No, not quite. We’ve had our eye on the operation for two years, but haven’t been able to get close to it until now. Our insider, Madison Cockler, is a civilian. She reached out to us a few weeks ago; she’d been dating Anthony Civella Jr. – the grandson of the current head of the Kansas City mob. He got her a job doing the scut work in the boiler room – taking client information, running errands – the woman’s work. But he’s been cheating on her and she wants to get even.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s risky.”

O’Donnell spoke up for the first time. “Turns out, AJ’s a little light on his feet. He likes to bat for the home team. Really likes the bat, if you know what I mean.” The agent actually snickered at his own repulsive whit.

“No, actually I don’t.” Peter’s tone was icy, in contrast to the instantly white hot rage he felt at this agent’s not-so-veiled homophobia. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Midday, Neal had to go to the quarterly budget meeting on the 27th floor. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t send Helen in his place, and he couldn’t blow it off. The higher-ups were (as always) looking to cut headcount, and those that weren’t there to speak up for themselves were the first to lose. At least those who had tiny budgets and smaller staff. Peter could (and did) send his second in command, the ever-competent Stephen Anderson, confident that he’d retain his current staffing levels, and maybe gain a few slots, too.

Of course the meeting was a waste of his time and it took a desperate recollection of the morning’s sex to keep him awake, if not exactly alert. By the time the meeting came to a close, he was mildly aroused and extraordinarily sleepy.

Helen, bless her, met him outside the conference room with a double espresso and a half-dozen macaroons from his favorite French bakery. “Do I have to now give you my first born?”

She grinned at him. “As if I’d want any of the monsters from your loins.”

“Then what’s this for?” He all but inhaled the coffee but was polite enough to offer her one of the cookies.

“No, thanks – I had my own.” She said nothing else, just stood there, grinning.

“Tell me that you got a hit on the music box.” 

“Yes, sir, that I did. Dr. Popolov confirmed its existence and he even had a photograph of it when it was taken from Russia and put on display in Königsberg Castle. So Devore could be telling the truth.”

Neal shoved the last macaroon in his mouth – the sugar and caffeine helped restore him to some level of working intelligence – and swallowed. Helen handed him a napkin and he wiped his lips before speaking. “Call Hawthorne Fed and schedule a meeting with Devore for tomorrow, first thing. I want to hear what he has to say, face-to-face.”

“He’s good, almost impossible to read.”

“Believe me, I know. Took me the better part of three years to catch him. Devore’s one of the world’s greatest con artists. We’ll need to be careful. If this is real, he’s going to want something big from us.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he was disappointed when you didn’t show up for the meeting.”

“I’m sure he was.” Changing the subject, Neal asked, “Anything else of interest going on in the office.”

“Actually, yeah. Assistant Director Malloy came in to the White Collar office with two out-of-towners, and corralled Agent Burke. They’ve been in the conference room for over an hour. Agent Burke looks pissed.”

Neal didn’t like Malloy and he knew that Peter shared that opinion, but Peter was too good an agent to let his dislike show. So there must be something else going on. “Do you know who the out-of-towners are?”

Helen’s grin was, as always, infectious. “I checked with Frank at the front desk. He says that they signed in as Sylvester DiNapoli and Walter O’Donnell, from the Kansas City field office. I’ve pulled their CVs. DiNapoli’s head of KC’s Organized Crime division, O’Donnell’s –”

“Here as window dressing.”

“How did you know that, sir?”

“He was my roommate at Quantico. Loser then, undoubtedly still a loser now.”

“Says here that his first assignment was at the Resident Agency in Fort Walton, Kansas. I didn’t think that new agents were assigned to Resident Agency offices.”

“They’re not – Walter was an exception.”

Helen was, as always, lightning-quick on the uptake. “I am guessing that he had political connections that made it impossible to fail him out of the Academy.”

Neal nodded. “His uncle was a U.S. Senator. So they did the next best thing to booting him. They gave him an assignment where he could do no harm. I am surprised that he’s lasted this long. He’s just shy of his twenty.”

“Maybe he settled down and became an agent worthy of his training.” Helen was such an optimist.

“That is unlikely.” Neal had very vivid memories of the five months he spent with Walter in close quarters. You really got to know a person, and at twenty-five, Walter wasn’t the kind of man who’d have the intestinal fortitude to turn himself around. He didn’t need to – his family had all the right connections. At forty-five, he was probably still scraping by on those connections.

Back in the office, Neal couldn’t help but notice the people in the conference room. And yes, he recognized O’Donnell, even though most of his hair was gone and his face was soft and pudgy. 

Peter, on the other hand, was anything but soft and pudgy. He was pacing back and forth like a caged lion, and even from the distance of the bullpen, Neal could tell that he was tense and angry. His face was tight and pointed; he was leading with this chin. O’Donnell looked smug. The third man in the room, presumably Sylvester DiNapoli, was sitting back, watching the by-play.

Neal couldn’t see Peter’s expression when he stalked down to the near end of the table and confronted O’Donnell face to face. 

They never interfered with each other’s work, but this was something he needed to step into. Neal grabbed a file off of Stephen’s desk and casually sauntered up the stairs, pretending to do a double take when he saw O’Donnell.

Neal plastered on a fake smile, tapped on the glass wall to get everyone’s attention and entered the conference room, seemingly oblivious to the tensions.

“Walter, how the hell are you?” Walter looked puzzled, he didn’t recognize him. “It’s me, Neal Caffrey – we were roommates in Quantico.”

O’Donnell got a shifty-eyed look. “Yeah, Caffrey – of course I remember you. Still in New York?” The implication was clear.

Neal ignored the not-so-subtle dig. “What brings you to the Big Apple? Last I heard you were posted in Kansas City.”

Someone cleared their throat – it was DiNapoli. “I don’t know who you are, but we’re having a briefing, and junior agents don’t just burst in like it’s old home week at the frat house.”

Neal looked around, all innocence. “Oh – sorry to interrupt everyone.” He caught Peter’s eye, Peter gave him an infinitesimal nod back. There were on the same page of the playbook, as always.

“DiNapoli – ” Peter deliberately left off the man’s title, “Agent Caffrey – unlike your associate, O’Donnell – is hardly a junior agent. He’s a highly decorated senior agent, the SAIC for the entire Art Crimes department, both in New York and in D.C. as well. Neal also has a permanent working brief here at White Collar.” 

Neal tried not to goggle at Peter. He had never seen him indulge in dick-measuring by proxy. He also never heard Peter use quite that tone. Not even when the local heroes burst in and messed up his operation. Despite that, Neal truly enjoyed the whole compare and contrast thing – Neal as SAIC and Walter as a junior agent – when they both had been in the same class in the Academy. _Nice move …_

Peter didn’t let the ball go quite yet. “In any event, Neal might have some insights.” He passed a case file to him. “It’s a classic pump-and-dump, but with a twist.”

Neal perused the data. “I can see that.”

Peter continued. “Walter was just explaining his scheme for getting into the boiler room operation.”

DiNapoli cleared his throat. “Nothing’s final yet.”

“Oh, really?” Neal was stunned at the derision in Peter’s reply. “Your agent here seems to think otherwise.”

“What’s going on?” He handed the file back to Peter, who dropped it on the conference like it was a sack of garbage.

“They want to set up a honey trap.”

Walter was apparently oblivious to the tension in the room, or he was simply stupid. “It’ll work, trust me. Hang the right piece of meat in front of AJ Civella and he’s gonna take a great big bite. Then we can use him to crack open the whole operation, and maybe even the entire Kansas City organization.”

Neal was skeptical. “Honey traps rarely work like you think they will. Besides, even if the suspects bites – what are you expecting? That the target will just roll? Is he even married?”

“Oh, I didn’t get to the best part. AJ – Anthony Civella, Junior’s a faggot.”

Neal froze. It had been a long time since he heard that word uttered with such joy-filled disgust. “Excuse me?” 

DiNapoli interrupted, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those sensitive types.” He made air quotes around the word “sensitive.”

Neal held his hand out. Peter looked like he was about to commit an act of violence against another agent. Not a good idea. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on …”

“Yeah, Caffrey’s probably one of those. All he whined about was how he wanted to work in Art Crimes when we were at Quantico.”

Both of the agents snickered. DiNapoli added insult upon insult. “I bet he’s one of those who think that the fags should marry.”

Neal blinked. Of all the things. Of all the words that could come out of those assholes mouths.

DiNapoli and O’Donnell kept at it, kept digging deeper and deeper holes. The plan was to catch Civella in a compromising position with a male agent, use that to turn him – because Civella would be as good as dead if his family found out about him.

Objectively, it wasn’t a bad plan. But he knew that Peter wouldn’t stand for it – whatever the target’s sexual orientation – he didn’t pimp out his agents. Nor did Neal. And the thought that these two morons believed that this was an acceptable solution was disgusting.

Peter snagged the folder and opened the conference room. “Agents, you can go back to Kansas City now. We’ll take it from here.”

That got their attention. “What the hell do you mean; you’ll take it from here?” DiNapoli stood up, his posture suddenly aggressive.

“I mean that this is now our case. It’s in our jurisdiction. We’ll keep you briefed, but it’s no longer your operation and I have no interest in allowing bigots on my team.” 

DiNapoli looked like he had been slapped. Then his expression turned vicious. “I think Walter, here, was wrong. It’s not Caffrey who’s the sensitive type. It’s you, Burke. You’re the one with the big dick in this office and you really like to swing it.”

Walter added, “Tell me, Caffrey – does he put the moves on you in the men’s room?”

Neal stood there for a second, jaw agape, before responding. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re both really this stupid?” Neal would have continued, but Peter interrupted, with – of all things – a heartfelt laugh. Neal’s hands were bunched into tight fists, he hadn’t been this moved to violence in very long time.

“Neal – stop.” Peter went out to the balcony and called over the guard at the door. “Allen, please escort these two out of the building.”

Of course, DiNapoli and O’Donnell starting making all sorts of threats – to take this back to Malloy, to DC, all the way up to the Director himself. 

“Don’t bother. I don’t think you’ll particularly care for the reception you’ll get there. And besides, you came to New York for help and that’s just what you’re getting.”

Allen stood there, his hand on his sidearm. The entire bullpen was keenly observing the little drama. DiNapoli and O’Donnell finally left and they watched as they waited for the elevator, accompanied by Allen, who would escort them to the street. 

Neals hands were stuffed in his pockets; he didn’t want anyone to see his fists. He had a bad feeling that this wasn’t going to be the last time he saw that pair.

Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. And thanks for the interruption. Your timing is – as always – impeccable.”

“And yet I’m the one who was nearly moved to violence.” Neal was still seething.

Peter tugged him into his office and shut the door. “Relax. Take a deep breath. Just let it go.”

Neal complied.

“It’s really a cliché, but they aren’t worth it,” Peter told him.

“I know, I know. But I guess I never expected that. Not here, not in our own office.” Neal took another deep, steadying breath. Then chuckled. “I wonder, when they do go to Malloy, what he’ll tell them about us?”

“Hmm, I doubt he’ll say anything. Malloy may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

Neal had to agree. “But it just feels so …”

“Yeah, I know. One step forward, two steps back?”

the late hour, it was nearly ninety-five on the street and probably ten to fifteen degrees warmer here on the platform. The city may have made progress with cleaning up the mass-transit system, but the stench of decades was not easily scrubbed away.

At least the car was air conditioned and it was marginally cooler when they climbed out onto the tree-lined streets of the Upper West Side. Still, by the time they closed the apartment door behind them, Peter was soaked through his shirt, and Neal wasn’t in any better state.

They stripped and crowded each other in the shower, the water on as cool as they could bear. It might have turned into an encore of the morning’s activities when Peter remembered what was in his suit jacket pocket. He wasn’t a slob, but Neal was very particular about matters of wardrobe. _“Even if you’re only going to wear Brooks Brothers, you’re going to have it tailored and you’re going to treat it right.”_ Which meant that Neal usually went through both their pockets every night, emptying them out and making sure that they were properly hung up or prepped for the dry cleaners. 

If Neal got out of the shower before him, he’d probably make a beeline for their clothes. He’d find the box with the ring and all his plans for a romantic proposal would be ruined. Peter extracted himself from the cool shower and casually toweled off and left the bathroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist and retrieved his suit jacket from the floor. It would be suspicious if he hung it up, but timing was critical. The box with the ring went into the night table on his side of the bed, underneath the boxes of condoms and a half-finished book of old New York Times crossword puzzles. No point in putting it in the gun safe, since they were both in there on a daily basis.

He was in the process of picking up the rest of the scattered clothing and dumping them on a chair when Neal came out of the bathroom.

“Jeez, Peter - it’s been nearly thirty years and I still haven’t been able to domesticate you?”

He let out a small sigh of relief. “What can I say? I’m untrainable.”

“Hmmm, at least in certain things.” Neal went through the evening ritual and in a few minutes there was a pile of wallets, badges, ID folders and spare change on the dresser. The guns and clips were locked away and both of their suits, shirts and ties were bagged for the cleaners.

Peter stood there, mostly dry, mostly naked and stupidly happy. 

“What?” Neal looked up from what he was doing - putting on a ratty pair of shorts and a worn tee-shirt that might date back to his Academy days.

“Nothing.” Peter just pulled on a pair of gym shorts and didn’t bother with underwear - it was nearly nine and they’d be in bed in another hour. 

Supper was foraged from leftovers - they shared the remainder of a cold pasta dish and some salad. Not the most filling, but it was way too late and far too hot to think about a more substantial meal. 

Neal flipped through the mail, sorting into the usual piles of to-be-dealt with and to-be-tossed. Something must have caught his interest, because a sharp bark of laugher interrupted Peter’s attempts to finish the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. “Care to share?”

“Another offer for this place.”

“Ah - how much this time?”

“Seven point eight. Cash.”

“Are you interested?”

“Not me – us.” 

“Okay, are _we_ interested?”

“Do you want to move?”

“Not particularly. But it’s a nice chunk of change.”

Neal gave him that look, the one that reminded him not to be stupid about certain things. “We don’t need the money and I’m not interested in moving either.” He ripped the letter in half and quarters and eighths and deposited the little pieces of paper into the envelope it originally came in.

They didn’t argue much. Over thirty years together and there had been only a few serious fights. They had each done stupid things in their partnership, and Peter reflexively rubbed the scar on his chest thinking about one of them in particular, but getting into serious arguments was not part of their makeup.

Unless it was about Neal’s money. 

They had joint wills, their salaries were deposited into a joint bank account and expenses were shared like any couple. Except that Neal had a net worth in the hundreds of millions of dollars now. Over the past decade, he had started selling off the late Vincent Adler's New York City real estate holdings: dozens of luxury apartments that hadn’t been on the market for decades. He had inherited half of them when Adler died and the other half when his mother passed away. Residential real estate in New York City was better that gold these days. And considering the price of gold ...

This particular apartment, a four-bedroom duplex in a pre-War building on Riverside Drive, was probably the last of Adler’s properties in the city that Neal hadn’t disposed of. It had been their home since Neal graduated Quantico, and one of the few serious arguments they had in the last decade was Neal’s insistence on having Peter’s name added to the title. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want an equal stake; it was just that he kept thinking that this was something he hadn’t earned. They hadn’t shouted at each other, but when Neal had turned from him in anger, the words sort of tumbled out of Peter’s mouth.

_

”What do you mean you think that you haven’t earned this?” Neal’s voice was icy, controlled, and Peter could feel the anger rolling off him in waves. “Do you think I had to earn it?”

Peter swallowed, it sounded so awful now. “No – that’s not what I meant – you know that.” It was more than thirty years in their past, and neither man could ever forget what had happened, and what almost happened.

Neal’s anger seemed to collapse, like a deflated balloon. “Peter, if you really feel that way, maybe this will change your mind.” He reached out to take his hand. “You absolutely earned this – you earned it when you invited me over to your house for dinner when Adler left me to find my way home after that Little League game. You earned this when you opened your front door at two AM, gave me orange juice and woke up your parents. You earned this – stupidly – when you dumped me in high school because you were afraid that you were another Vincent Adler.”

Neal paused, the emotions seething. But before Peter could say anything, he spoke again. “You earned this by being my life partner, by making me soup when I’m sick, by waking up next to me every single day and kissing me through my morning breath. You earned this because I love you and there’s nothing more important than that.”

_

Peter sighed at the memory. After that vehement declaration, he had no choice but to give in. When they signed the papers at the attorney’s office, Neal kicked his ankle like they were in grade school. “You know, it actually doesn’t matter. You’ll get everything anyway.”

He remembered the brief moment of rage - how dare Neal talk about that so casually. 

“Peter? Everything okay?” He blinked - something of that memory must have shown on his face. 

“Yeah - just thinking about those assholes from Kansas City.” _Nice deflection, Burke._

Neal grimaced, too. “Yeah. Have any ideas on how you’re going to run the case?”

“Not a honey trap, that’s for certain.” Now he was legitimately angry about the matter.

“No - you wouldn’t do that. Not ever.” 

Peter was instantly soothed by Neal’s ringing affirmation. “Sorry - the thought is disgusting. Hetero or homo - my office doesn’t work like that.”

“Pity the rest of the Bureau doesn’t share your morals.”

He shrugged in reply and collected the supper plates and put them in the sink. Tomorrow would be soon enough to wash everything up. “What about your day? What was Helen so excited about?”

Neal leaned back in his chair, a swift grin brightening his face. “George Devore.”

“What does he want now? Wasn’t it bad enough that he kept you on your toes and on the road for almost three years?” He should have despised Devore for that, but Neal loved that chase and it was one of the few cases where White Collar and Art Crime had intersected. Devore had crossed into his territory with a series of spectacular bond forgeries, branching out from gallery heists and art forgeries. “Why is he back on the radar?”

“Supposedly a piece of Catherine the Great’s Amber Room may have surfaced - a music box. He says that it’s part of something huge.”

“Don’t tell me Devore has a lead on the entire missing room? Even the experts now admit it probably went up in flames when the British bombed Königsburg Castle.”

Neal shrugged. “Don’t know what he wants - but Helen went to Hawthorne Fed this morning to see him, and she’s thinks his information could be legit. Apparently there was a music box, and there were even color photos of it. It may have been taken from Königsburg before the bombing. I figure it’s worth a trip to the Tombs to see what else George has to say. Besides, I wouldn’t mind seeing George again." 

Peter had to laugh. “You always had a soft spot for Georgie-boy.”

“Hard not to like him. The man might be one of the brightest criminal minds of the new millennium, but he doesn't have a vicious bone in his body. And you have to admit that the chocolate replica of that bronze medallion was nothing short of genius.” Neal turned his attention back to the mail. “Well, well - this is a surprise!” 

He handed the thick, cream-colored card, an invitation by the looks of it, to Peter. “Diana Berrigan’s getting married. It looks like she and Christie are finally tying the knot.” Peter instantly thought of the ring hidden in his night table drawer. 

“At noon, six weeks from next Sunday.” Neal chuckled. “Another one bites the dust. Bet you never thought, back in high school, that the reason why Diana nailed you in the ‘nads that time was because she preferred girls.”

Peter winced in embarrassment at the old memory. “Or maybe she just didn’t like me trying to feel up her tits.”

“Could be that, too.” Neal shuffled the to-be-dealt-with mail into a neat pile and tossed the rest. “Do you want to watch the ballgame?”

“Nah - no point in getting aggravated.” The slumping Yankees were playing the Angels in Anaheim. “Let’s just call it a night, unless you want to stay up?”

Neal leered at him, and to both men’s shock, the leer turned into a yawn of stupendous proportions.

Yawning in response, he dragged Neal back upstairs and into bed. The air conditioner hummed, keeping the room cool enough that he didn't mind Neal spooning against his back. Any thoughts he had about a casual marriage proposal evaporated in the need for sleep.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

****  
_Tuesday_  


They had barely left the claustrophobic confines of Hawthorne Fed when Helen asked, "So, what do you think?" 

Neal glared at her. She seemed way too crisp and bouncy for this late July heat wave. Or it could be that she was wearing just half the clothes he was. "I think you aren’t really dressed like an FBI agent. I could insist on a more traditional dress code, suit, skirt, hosiery, one of those blouses with the floppy bow at the buttoned up collar."

"You're only making threats like that because you're too much of a sartorial snob to skip the vest and the long-sleeved shirt with the French cuffs, even in this heat."

"I could also have you reassigned to the Cave for even suggesting that I wear a short-sleeved 'dress' shirt."

"If you do that, who will bring you your perfect, light-as-air cappuccinos?"

Neal had to admit that he was beaten. "All right, all right. You've got me."

"Well, what do you think? Is Devore onto something?"

Neal considered the question as they stopped at the intersection and waited for the green light. "Could be - the box is real. I'm going to reach out to a few CIs, see if they've heard anything."

"Want me to reel in Alex Hunter?"

"Yeah, let's start with her. If she's not in New York, see if Ryan Wilkes is around."

Helen stopped and Neal turned around. The waves of people on the sidewalk parted around them. "What's the matter."

"I don't like Wilkes.” Helen muttered. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he disturbs me."

Neal tucked his arm into Helen's to get her moving. "You’re probably right to be wary. Ryan Wilkes is as close to a sociopath as we're ever likely to meet. But he's useful."

"He'd sell out his grandmother if he thought he could get something for her, and he probably has." 

"Tell you what. You follow up on Hunter and then try to see if Gordon's been putting a crew together. I'll follow up on Wilkes."

Helen stopped again. "When did you turn Gordon Taylor?"

Neal sighed and dragged her along. "I wish I had. But there’s always chatter around him. About him. Nothing concrete, but we may be able to get some sort of idea of what he’s planning by who he’s recruiting."

"Ah - if Taylor's putting the right type of crew together, maybe he's after the box too. Then Devore's story carries more weight."

"Knew I kept you around for a reason, and it isn't just because you get me good coffee." They stopped in front of a downtown entrance to the subway. "We part company here - I've got some stuff to do."

"Stuff?" Helen looked around and Neal winced. They were at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Seven Street. "You've got stuff to do on Diamond and Jewelry Way?" 

"Yeah, and scram."

Helen didn't move, but her always mobile face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. "You're going to do it, right? You're going to ask him?"

Neal rubbed the back of his neck, and was disgusted at the sweat that had seeped through his collar. _So much for keeping this secret._ "If you breathe one word - or you smile too brightly or make those weird little sighing noises around Agent Burke - it's not the Cave for you. It's the Resident Agent Office in Fairbanks. During black fly season."

Helen obviously didn't take his threat seriously. She continued to smile. "I wouldn't dream of letting this slip. Do you want me to come to look at rings with you? I could give you another point of view."

"Helen - Agent Burke and I have known each other longer than you've been alive. I don't think I need anyone's opinion on what he'd like."

She actually pouted. "But, diamonds!"

"Don't even start …" Helen had a habit of song-bombing him at inappropriate times, and he could see she was ramping up for a one-woman version of _Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend._

"You're no fun." She pulled his briefcase off his shoulder. "I'll take this back to the office, because I'm just that nice. Even if you don't let me come engagement ring shopping with you." 

Neal had to smile. "Go - I'll be back in the office in a few hours." He watched as she bounced down the steps of the subway entrance, disappearing into the crowd. He turned and walked up Forty-Seventh Street, dodging first a Hassidic diamond dealer who was probably carrying a few million in stones in his breast pocket, then a barker trying to entice customers into an air conditioned store. 

His destination was a second floor office in one of the cramped buildings that lined both sides of the street. “David Hershkovitz & Sons” was painted in black and gold on the ancient shatter-proof glass. Neal's appointment was with Aaron, David's grandson, a man old enough to be _his_ grandfather.

The man who buzzed him in was an old friend. Dov had been a classmate of Neal’s at Harvard Law, where they bonded over a mutual love of art and beautiful things. Dov had initially planned to escape the family business, but he had dropped out during their second year, after his father, Aaron’s only son, died. Neal always thought that Dov was much happier as a jewelry designer and diamond merchant than he’d ever be as an attorney

“You’re late!”

“You’ve been waiting?”

“Patiently, maybe?”

Neal hugged Dov and patted the man’s expansive belly. “You’re looking prosperous.”

“With four sons, three daughters, all geniuses, I’d better be prosperous. Just think of the tuition bills!” Dov pulled him into the back office, calling out, “ _Zayde_ , look who I found.”

Aaron looked up from a tray of sparkling white stones and took the loupe from his left eye. “You’re late.” Like his grandson, there was no real sting in the words.

“My apologies, Aaron. I hope I haven’t disrupted your busy schedule.” The words were practically a ritual. 

“Feh, I’m eighty-five, what do I know from busy schedules? Come, sit.” Aaron turned to his grandson. “Get us some coffee and don’t give me any backtalk about the hour and what my doctor said about caffeine.”

Dov caught Neal’s eye and asked, “Still light, no sweetener?”

“Yes, please, and some of your wife’s rugelach, perchance?”

“Chocolate or raspberry?”

“A few of each?” Neal didn’t bother to disguise the pleading note.

Aaron casually swept the stones he was examining into a glassine envelope and Neal chatted with him for the few minutes it took for Dov to bring the refreshments. 

The conversation continued as they finished the coffee and sweets. “So, now that you _fegelahs_ have the right to marry, you’re going to pop the question?” Aaron leaned back in his chair and brushed the crumbs from his beard.

“ _Zayde!_ ”

“Oh, hush. I’m sure he’s heard much worse.”

“But not from people who he calls friend, certainly?”

Neal didn’t take offense. “Of course I’ve heard worse, but your grandfather doesn’t mean any insult.” He looked at Aaron. “Unless you do? Intend to insult, that is.”

“Nah. Just pushing your buttons, as they like to say.” Aaron rolled his chair over to a small floor safe. “Any idea what you’re looking for?”

“Peter’s not the type to wear something big and flashy. And the stone has to be perfect – double D, VS1, VS2 at the worst.”

“You’re not asking for much, are you?” Dov chuckled.

“You’re supposed to have the best stones on the street. If you can’t source that – what are you still doing here?”

Aaron rolled back to the table, a small, black velvet tray in hand. “Flattery like that will get you everywhere.” He lifted the lid off the tray and angled a bright lamp over it. “Thought that one of these might be what you’d like.” There were just four stones there, four incredible bits of cut and transformed carbon.

Neal gasped. He knew diamonds, but these were exceptional, and not just for their brilliance. “They are like little shields – little FBI badges.” He picked up the loupe and looked to Aaron for permission.

He waved a hand. “Go ahead, I figured you’d be interested in something like this.”

Plucking a stone from the tray, Neal held it up to the light, almost dazzled by the fire.

Aaron commented, “Now, normally, I don’t like the fancy cuts. But these trillions seemed right for an FBI agent.”

Neal didn’t respond, he just kept looking at each of the stones. Two were set aside immediately – he didn’t like the cut of one and the other was too big. “Which would you pick?” He looked back up at Aaron.

“Hmm, that’s a tricky question. Those two stones are all but identical, and you couldn’t go wrong with either.”

“How much?”

Aaron looked to his grandson. Dov named a figure that made Neal smile.

“I meant for both stones.”

Dov gave a shout of laughter. “Usually, the question is the other way around.”

“Never know when I could use the second one.” Neal was already thinking about a wedding present. 

“What about the setting?” Dov grabbed a sketchpad and a handful of catalogs. This was his forte. “White gold?”

“Platinum.” Neal countered.

Aaron left them; he was a diamond dealer, not a jeweler, and had little patience with this end of the business. It took the better part of an hour, plus the remainder of the rugelach and the coffee before they agreed on a design. 

“How long?” Neal was figuring on two weeks, at least.

Dov shook his head. “For you, by Friday, noon. You can take Peter out to a fancy dinner on Saturday night and pop the question then.”

Neal arched a brow. “That seems a little quick.” 

“Why complain? Are you getting cold feet?”

He was, maybe. But having the ring didn’t mean he had to propose the instant he saw Peter, right?

They talked terms; Neal handed over his platinum Amex, and signed the receipt. He took the unmounted stone, which Dov placed in a small leather envelope and put it in his breast pocket. He checked the time on his cell phone – it was too late to get to his bank’s safety deposit box. Neal just hoped that Peter wasn’t going to go rooting around the gun safe tonight.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Dov escorted Neal back to the front door and waited until Neal disappeared down the stairwell and out to the street. He went back into his grandfather’s office and flopped into a chair.

“Friday, before noon, _eyniklekh_?”

“It’ll be a tight squeeze, _zeyde_ , but not impossible.”

“Well, here’s to hoping that Peter doesn’t pop the question before Neal picks up his ring.”

“That would be embarrassing – a happy embarrassment, though. Had I known that Neal was going to want to do the asking, too, I would have taken more time with the setting his _bashert_ picked out for his mother’s diamond.”

“It’s a good stone, though?”

Dov shrugged. “Not as good as this one, but that’s not really what matters.”

His grandfather sighed. “You’re too much the romantic.”

This was an old argument. “And you’re not?” Dov leaned over, lifted up his grandfather’s yarmulke and pressed a kiss on the top of his bald head. 

Aaron just laughed. “I’m a diamond merchant, I can’t afford to be.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter was mildly annoyed. He had hoped that Neal would be back in time for the planning session on this new boiler room case. Helen Chen was back at her desk, but there was no sign of Neal and he didn’t want to hold up his team.

He’d just finished giving the background of the known players when Neal slid into the conference room, leaning against the wall. The reflection from the monitors highlighted the sheen of perspiration on his face and made his eyes glow bluer. 

There was something in Neal’s posture, the way his shoulders curved, the lift of his chin that made Peter think there was something up, but since he offered nothing – letting the younger agents take the floor – Peter figured that whatever it was didn’t relate to the case at hand.

Stephen Anderson suggested that they try to get an agent into the boiler room as a trader, which might get them a lead on who was pulling the strings. The scions of the Kansas City mob may have done this before, but if the intel they had was correct, the game was leveling up with the addition of a big time Wall Street player. Peter agreed.

“What about a two-pronged attack?” Neal finally decided to contribute.

“Go on.”

“Maybe we can get this crew to push a company we pick? One of the dummy corps we’ve used – they’re not listed on the stock exchanges, but according to the profile, Civella’s crew is pushing penny stocks.”

Peter liked the idea. “But how do we get him to take the bait – the company we’re pushing?”

The team tossed around ideas, but he could see that Neal had his own and was keeping it close. 

“Okay – okay. All of your ideas are brilliant, but take some time and write them up – I want a report with your suggestions on my desk by close of business.”

Stephen ushered the team out – he’d lead a brainstorming session. Peter headed back to his office, and as he hoped, Neal followed.

“What are you thinking?”

Neal flopped into the guest chair, leaned back and put his feet up, a move calculated to aggravate, especially since Neal hated Peter’s feet on the furniture at home. He swatted at those feet more for form’s sake than anything. 

“Well? What have you got?”

“What about a variation on what DiNapoli and Walter proposed?”

“Neal – I thought we were on the same page here. No honey traps. No seducing suspects.”

“But, what if the game wasn’t about sex, but money? What if we orchestrate a meet – using a wealthy investor who has some off-shore funds. He doesn’t want to handle the transactions directly, but he’s got a place to put them, maybe a company that’s flying below the radar? Maybe it’s something that could pop at any moment?”

Peter could see the merits. “And that investor wouldn’t mind if someone bought into that company around the same time, would cover his ass, so to speak.”

“And our bogus investor still wants some bona fides – wants to meet the big player – the man behind the curtain.”

“That’s good. Very good.” Peter was getting excited. “Who should we send in?”

“Me.”

His excitement died. “No – no.” And then, most emphatically, “No.”

“And why not?”

Peter didn’t like Neal’s tone; he didn’t like how Neal’s eyes went flat, the spark dimmed. He didn’t like the abrupt anger, the iciness too reminiscent of another time, a discussion about another undercover opportunity. This time, though, he wasn’t making the same mistake. “Because the idea of you anywhere near a dangerous mobster …”

Neal shook his head, still angry. “Peter – let’s not do this.”

“Neal – ” 

He held up a hand. “There’s nothing in his file to indicate that Civella is dangerous or violent. And even if he was, it’s irrelevant. I think you’re forgetting that I’m a senior agent, fully qualified to handle myself in these situations. I have more deep cover experience than you, more undercover experience than you.”

“And you don’t think I don’t worry every damn time you go out there?” Peter tried and failed to keep his temper.

Neal refused to back down. “Lower your voice, Agent Burke. Remember who you’re talking too.” He got up to leave, but turned back before he opened the door. “There isn’t another agent that has the right background, the right mythology for this. I’m going to put this in the planning report for the operation, and I don’t expect you to take my name off it because …” Neal closed his eyes and sighed. “Because you love me, and you worry too much.”

“Neal …” He reached out.

“Don’t. I’m too pissed off right now. I thought we were long past this, Peter.”

Peter watched as Neal walked out, stiff with anger. Neal was right, of course. He wasn’t some inexperienced probie, or a CI too drunk on the exciting proposition of taking down a mobster. His partner was probably one of the most experienced undercover agents in the city, something that Peter was immensely proud of. _So why did he just act like an overprotective asshole?_

The view out of the twenty-first floor window brought no clarity, nor did the view over the bullpen. Stephen had Peter’s team working in groups, but Neal was engaged with Helen Chen, probably on the Devore matter. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon filing reports, nearly losing his temper when Malloy called.

“Apparently you were extremely uncivil and unprofessional to our out-of-town guests yesterday.”

“They were a pair of knuckle-dragging homophobes, and I won’t tolerate that from anyone,” Peter snapped.

“Calm down, Burke. I said, ‘apparently.’ DiNapoli was all up in my face about how us New Yorkers are so politically correct that we’d rather let the fags run around naked than catch criminals.”

Peter took a deep breath. “And what was your reply, sir?” 

“That had he said that in my presence, rather than on a phone call from a field office twelve-hundred miles away, he might have ended up with something a little harsher than an escort to the ground floor. And not to bother bringing this to the brass in D.C., they have better things to worry about.”

Peter wondered who replaced his boss with a human being. 

“Burke, nothing to say?”

“Thank you, for a start.”

“Now – tell me about how you’re going to handle this case.”

He outlined the plan – to have an agent go in to the brokerage under-cover, and to have another agent get his hooks into Civella, and then into the supposed big-time Wall Street player.

“Caffrey’s the one for that job, you know.”

Peter closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. “That he is.”

“He’s got the right background, the polish. His Nick Halden alias should be perfect for this operation.”

“Yes, you’re right. Of course it is.”

“Make sure that Caffrey’s kept it up to date, and if he has to work on it – now’s the time.” Malloy ended the call and Peter carefully replaced the handset on his phone. Nothing like being boxed in.

The rest of the day went slowly. Neal sent him a text that he’d be late coming home; he had to meet with someone. Under normal circumstances, Peter wasn’t the type of man to read into things, but there was something about this message, the terseness of it, that hurt him and pissed him off. Maybe because they worked in the same building, on the same goddamn floor, separated by less than twenty feet. There was no reason why Neal couldn’t stick his head in the door and let him know what was going on. No reason other than he was still angry at him and his “meeting” was nothing more than avoidance.

Except that Neal didn’t play games like that. He had a temper, yeah. But he wasn’t vindictive, he wasn’t cruel. He may not have wanted to talk to Peter, but he wasn’t lying. Neal didn’t lie to him, ever.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Funny how days that start out so promising can end so badly._ Soaked to the skin, suit ruined, shoes ruined, Neal let himself into the apartment. The cool air sent a shiver through him.

“My god, Neal! What happened to you?” Peter must have heard the door open and came out of the kitchen to meet him.

“The heat wave’s broken. It’s pouring out.” Neal wasn’t surprised that Peter didn’t know about the change in weather. This was an old building, but it had new, sound-proofed windows.

“Are you all right?” Peter reached for him, but Neal stepped back.

“I’m okay, just drenched. No point in both of us getting wet.” He toed off his shoes and looked at them mournfully. Three thousand dollars’ worth of Italian leather was about to hit the trash can. But Peter intercepted them. 

“Let me take care of this. Go change, before you get sick.” That was Peter, forever the mother hen.

Exhausted, Neal found himself wishing for Aunt Cathy and Uncle Joe’s suburban ranch as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He smiled at the peace offering on the bed. Peter had taken out his after-work clothes, a sweet and thoroughly bizarre gesture. He couldn’t remain angry at the man – not when love was the motivation for his stupidity.

He stripped to the skin, but instead of putting on the shorts and tee-shirt, Neal wrapped himself in his favorite _haori_ , which Peter would inevitably tease him about. He hung up his suit – it was a mess, but maybe it could be salvaged; his dry cleaner had worked miracles before. If it wasn’t for the ingrained nightly ritual of emptying his pockets, he might have completely forgotten about the take-home portion of his purchase today.

Neal opened the small leather case and stared at the gem – almost mesmerized by it. He hoped that Dov would be able keep his promise. Suddenly it became urgent that he ask Peter to marry him, he didn’t want to wait a moment longer than he had to.

_Why not ask him tonight?_

Neal put it in the safe, tucked behind a box with his spare clips, figuring that there was no reason for Peter to be digging around back there. His Glock followed, its trigger nestling against the barrel of Peter’s gun in an NRA-approved version of big-spoon/little-spoon. He shut the door and turned the handle, the lock engaging with a tiny electronic beep.

Energized, Neal joined Peter downstairs, the words “marry me” on his lips. Only to find Peter in the kitchen, filling his ruined shoes with …

“Rice?”

Peter looked up, a proud but sheepish grin on his face. “Well, if it works for electronics, why not your shoes? Just need to keep changing out the rice before it gets too soft. And if it doesn’t work, well – you were about to dump them anyway.”

Strange as it sounded, he had a point. “I hope you’re not using my imported Arborio.”

That earned him The Look. But Peter did hold up the bag of Carolina’s as proof.

Neal opened his mouth, about to pop the question, but Peter spoke first. “About this afternoon – I’m sorry. It was a gut reaction – I know what you are capable of, I respect that, I’m proud of that. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back, no one I’d rather go through a door with.” He took a deep breath. “I’m just an overprotective idiot sometimes. Forgive me?”

All thoughts of a marriage proposal flew out of his head. That could wait. His forgiveness, his understanding, could not. “Always.” Neal reached out, wrapping his arms around Peter. The day wasn’t ending so badly after all.

Peter buried his face in Neal’s neck, the roughness of his late day beard scratching at the sensitive skin. The familiarity of nearly thirty years together hadn’t dimmed the spark between them one bit. He kissed Neal under his ear, a spot that never failed to send a dart of lust through him. 

“Mmmm, you taste good.”

“I taste sweaty.”

“That’s what I mean, you taste good.” Peter rocked his hips against him, pressing him back against the refrigerator. The stainless steel was cool through the silk robe, a startling contrast to his lover's hot, hard hands, and hotter mouth. He kissed Neal, nipping at his jaw, moving back to his neck.

When he set his teeth against the muscles and tendons there, Neal’s arousal went into overdrive. Peter was in a mood, he was going to mark him, claim him. But while Neal loved that and he would wear the bruises with pride, it wasn’t want he wanted - now. 

It didn’t take much to twist out of Peter’s hold.

“What?” Peter reached for him, confusion warring with desire.

“No – not like that, not tonight.” Neal pulled Peter back to him and spun them around, so that it was Peter’s back against the fridge, and he held him there with his knee. It didn’t matter that Peter was bigger, stronger – he wasn’t going to fight Neal. Not when it came to sex, and certainly not tonight.

“I want you.”

Peter laughed, rubbing his thigh against Neal’s erection. “I think that’s obvious.”

“No, you're not in charge.” Neal pushed his hand under Peter’s tee-shirt, lifting it up, exposing his belly, his chest – hard, smooth perfection. He set his teeth against one of Peter’s tight, dark nipples, biting down gently, a warning. Peter arched his back, pushing himself onto Neal’s mouth. 

This was one of the few things that Neal could reliably use to take control away from Peter during sex. “You’re such a slut for this, aren’t you?”

Peter’s answer was to pull off his shirt and lean back against the fridge, arms above his head. Neal thought he looked like a slave awaiting his master’s pleasure, a concept he’d rarely associate with his dominant lover. He ghosted his fingers across Peter’s chest, the muscles rippling in wake of the sensation. Neal let them drift along his collar bone, coming to rest in his suprasternal notch, against the mole, where a small bit of perspiration pooled.

Neal used that moisture to dampen Peter’s nipples, which instantly puckered in the cool air. He tormented Peter a little more, blowing on the sensitive skin. Peter responded so beautifully, writhing against him.

“You just love that, don’t you?” Neal whispered against Peter’s skin, licking and biting at one of his nubs, his fingers pinching the other one. “Big guy like you, such a slut for nipple work.” _God, did he just say that?_

Peter laughed, and the laugh turned into another moan as Neal bit down again.

He stepped back and looked at Peter, eyes closed, chest thrust out, damp with his saliva, the soft fabric of his gym shorts grossly distended by his trapped erection. There was a growing patch of wetness there, too. He licked his lips. Yeah – he could go down on Peter, swallow him whole, suck that gorgeous cock until he came. He’d drink every last drop – but that really wasn’t what he wanted tonight. 

“Strip. Now.”

Peter opened his eyes, confused at the harshness of the command. Neal didn’t let his joy leak out into a smile. Tonight, now – he was the one in charge.

“I said, strip.” 

Peter started to smirk, but stopped as he met Neal’s eyes. He pushed his shorts down, as he kicked them away, his cock bobbed up and smacked against his belly. This time, it was Neal who smirked. He stripped too, shrugging out of his robe, casually tossing it on a nearby chair. “Don’t move.”

Neal’s own erection matched Peter’s for enthusiasm and altitude, but he wasn’t a leaker – that was Peter’s specialty, and to do what he wanted, he was going to need a little help. He reached for a bottle of olive oil that had been left on the counter. “There’s something to be said for kitchen sex.”

This time, Neal’s sternness couldn’t restrain his partner’s snark. “And you were worried that I’d use your precious Arborio?” 

He looked at the bottle. It was a particularly expensive _Frescobaldi Laudemio_ that he had found and had shipped home during a recent vacation in Tuscany. “You’re worth it.” He poured a small amount into his palm and stroked his cock. It felt so good; the extra viscosity was like another hand gripping him. He _could_ just stand here and jerk himself off over Peter, but …

“Please.”

It wasn’t just the word; it was the look in Peter’s eyes. The need, the desire – that look that had been driving him crazy since they were both teenagers and seriously jailbait.

He pressed himself against Peter, hip to hip. Though Peter was taller, Neal was leggier, and their bodies met perfectly. He grasped Peter’s dick, pulling it tight against his own. He let go and allowed the lubrication do what it was supposed to. The sensation of their cocks riding each other was exquisite, just on the right side of painful. He grunted and pushed harder, a hand on each side of Peter’s hips, fingers digging into that hard ass before sliding back, into his crack.

Peter wasn’t passive, not one bit. He reached up and threaded his fingers through Neal’s hair, cupping the back of his head, bringing him in for a kiss.

Times like this, when Neal strove to control, when Peter forced himself to accept that control, their kisses were a battleground. Their mouths met, tongues and teeth clashing in desire. Neal bit down carefully on Peter’s lower lip, sucking it in and releasing it with reluctance. Peter took his revenge, swooping back in. He laughed, just a little. Peter had always kissed like a conqueror.

But Neal had the upper hand, stroking and pulling and holding Peter’s cock tight, thumb pressed against the slit, keeping them both on the edge of desire.

“Enough, enough,” Peter growled through his kisses. 

“You want to come?” That was, in retrospect, a silly question.

Peter’s answer was to rock himself hard against Neal, his thigh rubbing against his groin. Neal let go and shoved back, grinding himself into Peter. They used each other, competing for each sensation.

Neal came first, because Peter refused to play fair. His hands slid down, cupping Neal’s ass and like an invader, without warning, he pressed two fingers deep into his hole, twisting and stretching. There was something to be said for the decades of familiarity; Peter hit his joy button immediately. Turnabout was fair play, and Neal reciprocated. 

They held each other through orgasm, their panting breaths accompanied by the thrum of the air conditioner as it clicked on.

“Jeez, Caffrey…”

Neal smiled against Peter’s sweaty skin. “Is that a complaint, Agent Burke?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Good thing we don’t have to have make-up sex too often, I probably wouldn’t survive.” Peter murmured.

Neal, tucked into him, chuckled. “But what a way to go.”

“You could say that again.” They had all but stumbled up the stairs and into the shower, where Peter let Neal wash him, care for him. It wasn’t unusual, but after his authoritative performance in the kitchen, it felt _right_.

They were both naked – also not unusual – but Peter felt oddly vulnerable, like he had been walking on a precipice at night, unaware of the danger. His arms tightened around Neal, he buried his face in Neal’s curls, and sighed.

“What’s the matter?”

Peter swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Neal twisted out of his arms and turned, sitting up. “Hey, it’s okay – I’m not angry anymore.” Neal reached out and caressed his cheek. “You love me, and on occasion you do stupid things because of that. It’s always been that way.”

Peter sat up, too, and turned on the light. “Yeah, but you’d think – after all this time…”

“Don’t ever change, Peter Burke.” Neal leaned over and kissed him. “I love you just the way you are.”

Peter groaned, it was a wonderful declaration, but now he was going to have that song in his head for days. “You did that deliberately.”

Neal’s chuckle was filled with an evil joy. “Well, I may have forgiven you, but there’s still a penalty to be paid.”

As long as they were up, Peter figured he might as well fill him in on the conversation he had with Malloy. “Is Nick Halden current? Anything you need to do to activate him?”

Neal had reached over to turn off the light, but stopped. “Peter?”

“Spoke with Malloy this afternoon, he told me to put you in play on the new case. Well, to put Halden in play.” Suddenly, Peter realized what a minefield he may just have just stepped into.

“Is that why you were so contrite?” Neal didn’t sound angry, just curious.

“No – I realized that I was behaving like an asshole when the words first left my mouth. It’s a habitual thing – which you’ve just so recently pointed out.”

“Yeah.” Neal relaxed against him. “Yeah.”

“So – is Halden up for the challenge?”

“He’s been in the Caymans the last few years, but I’ll bring him home. Any thoughts on how to set up a meet with Civella?”

“He’s got expensive tastes and he’s been staying at the Carlyle.” 

“Then it’s shouldn’t be all that difficult – I believe that the Carlyle is Nick’s favorite hotel when he’s in New York. Such a hard life.”

Peter could see the wheels turning, could see Neal figuring out the best way to trap their suspect. The only thing his partner enjoyed more than solving a good art heist was working undercover, and he did have a rare talent for it. “Come on, put it away. At least until tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay. Turn the light off?” Neal snuggled down and stretched out under the covers. Peter complied and relaxed against Neal. Despite their conversation, he still couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling. Maybe it was time to do the asking, to fix their lives together once and forever.

Neal shifted and muttered, “You’re thinking too loud, Peter. Get some sleep.”

No asking now. Peter wanted this proposal to be at the perfect moment, not as a coda to an argument. _This weekend, definitely._

****  
_Wednesday_  


The morning commute was a mess. The storm the night before took out half the stations on the West Side, and it would be at least a day before the system was back to normal. Neal had all but pushed Peter into the back of the town car he had called for when he first heard the news.

“You are such stubborn idiot – what were you planning to do, walk almost hundred blocks to work? You’d get there sometime after lunch.” The heat wave had broken, but only in the sense that it was now less than triple-digits. It was barely eight AM and it was already near ninety. “Besides, we’re going to pick up Helen.”

“You’re spoiling her.” Peter grumbled.

“No, I need her on time and in the office.” Neal paused, “Unless you really just wanted to make out for the entire ride.”

Peter didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Come on, times like these, you’ve got to enjoy the perks. It’s not like you’re taking a bribe, it’s just a trip to the office.” 

“I –”

“What? Want to get into the office in a sweat-soaked suit, looking like you’re going to have a heart attack? Having a heart attack?”

Peter tilted his head back against the seat. “You’re right – of course you are.”

“See, that didn’t hurt a bit.”

“Neal – ”

“Anyway, where do you want to go to dinner Saturday night?”

“Huh, Saturday? What’s Saturday?” There was an odd touch of panic in Peter’s voice that puzzled Neal.

“Just – don’t know. Thought we could have a nice, relaxing dinner on the town, something a little fancy.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why not? We haven’t been out in a few months. And besides, we’re going to the game on Sunday, remember? Thought it would be a nice contrast – foie gras and Bordeaux on Saturday, hot dogs and domestic beer on Sunday.”

“I hate foie gras.”

Neal sensed that Peter was complaining for form’s sake. “After twenty-nine years together, I know that. It was just an example.”

Peter gave him a wry smile, as if he just realized that Neal had been winding him up. “You know what? I think a fancy dinner sounds good. Wherever you want to go will be fine.” 

Neal ducked his head and hid a smile. It never ceased to amaze him how down-to-earth Peter was. He could more than hold his own in conversations ranging from high art to fine wine, but he was still Joe and Cathy Burke’s son. No fuss, no pretensions, just smart and honest and loyal as an early summer day. Neal wouldn’t have him any other way.

The town car crawled through the morning rush hour traffic, and Neal’s phone pinged with an incoming text. He read it and lowered the privacy window.

“Carlo, cancel the pickup on West 41st. My agent got her own lift into work.” Actually, Helen texted him that she was going to ride her bike to the office. Neal didn’t want to say that aloud, he didn’t want to give Peter any ideas. 

“Sure thing, Mr. Caffrey.” Carlo had been driving him around town for the better part of a decade. Since Peter wasn’t particularly interested in the scope of Neal’s private investments, there was no need to tell him that he had lent the man the start-up capital for his limo service five years ago. As the owner, Carlo didn’t normally work as a driver – except when Neal called.

Before he rolled the privacy window back up, Neal asked, “Do you have a car free for Saturday night?”

“For you, Mr. Caffrey, always.”

“We’ll need a pick-up at the apartment at eight, okay?”

“Sure – if it’s not me, it’ll be Carlo Jr. or Franck.” They had stopped at a light and Carlo wrote the order down.

The rest of the trip went quickly, despite the hour. Carlo pulled up in front of Federal Plaza about forty-five minutes after picking them up. As a concession to Peter’s sensibilities, Neal didn’t wait for Carlo to open the door for them.

They got out, and not even Malloy, who just happened to be at the curb and looking worse for wear in the summer heat, commented.

“See – not so bad.”

“No. But, still.”

“Now you’re complaining for the sake of complaining. Cowboy up, Burke.”

Peter’s shout of laughter made heads turn. 

The morning went quickly. Neal wrote up the report of his meeting with Alex Hunter last night. She and Devore went back a bit; Neal thought their history was more business than pleasure, but he could never be certain. Hunter was always a hard read, but not this time. She denied any knowledge of the music box, but Neal saw something in her eyes, on her face, that told him otherwise. There was some digging to do. Peter might have been the one with the famed gut detector, but Neal’s instincts were just as well honed. 

Hunter was involved with the music box, or at least she knew about it. It was time to do a little digging. He passed on the assignment to Helen, who survived her bicycle trip downtown – barely – and set to work on updating Nicholas Halden.

It didn’t take much, Halden was not the type to fly commercial and ICE was playing nice with the FBI this week. They were so cooperative that Neal had to wonder what the agency wanted. It took about a half-hour, and Nicholas Halden was officially back in the United States after a two year stay on Grand Cayman. He did the paperwork to get his alter ego a suite at the Carlyle next week and he made reservations at _Picoline_ for Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke on Saturday night.

It was a subtle sort of vengeance. _Picoline_ not the sort of place Peter might chose to dine, but it was the perfect place to ask him for his hand in marriage. At that last thought, Neal felt an embarrassed flush steal over him. That was such an old-fashioned phrase. 

It was still so hard to imagine, being able to get married. To have the absolute legal right to call Peter his husband. Neal didn’t kid himself – that right was under attack and while a Prop 8-type situation was unlikely in New York, that didn’t mean it wasn’t impossible. Assholes like that Chick-Fil-A guy were working hard to force their rigid notions of family down everyone’s throats. 

Neal had done what he could, donating the maximum amount of money to the campaigns of the five Republicans who made marriage equality in New York a reality. And this weekend, he was going to reap the benefit of the new law. 

Shortly before five, Helen tapped on his door. “I’ve got some interesting info on Alex Hunter, thought you might like a look at it.” She handed him a file.

Neal scanned it. There was a photograph with a name. “Gerhard Wagner? What’s the connection?”

“Wagner was once assigned to a transport detail based at Königsberg Castle. He surrendered to Allied forces in ’45, said that he had important information.”

“And according to this, he spoke directly with General Patton himself, who signed off on the orders to transfer him to D.C. for further debriefing.” Neal flipped through the file, it ended there. “Okay, but what’s the connection between Gerhard Wagner and Alex Hunter?”

Helen just grinned and handed him another file. It contained the same photograph and was attached to immigration paperwork for a “Michael Hunter.” Hunter’s immigration approval was stamped “OSS” – Office of Special Services, the precursor to the CIA. The only other paper in the file was a three year old obituary for the man. Neal looked up at Helen, his grin matching hers.

She stuck her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, thoroughly pleased with herself. “Gerhard Wagner was Alex Hunter’s grandfather. Wagner was at Königsberg before it was bombed by the British. Maybe he went to Patton with information about where the Amber Room was hidden. Maybe that’s the big secret that Devore alluded to.”

“Could very well be. Good work.”

“I got lucky – the obit was the first thing I found, and there was this weird search result for Michael Hunter in one of the INS databases.”

“Which lead you to Wagner.”

“Yup, but I still needed to pull on some strings at State to get his file.”

“It’s not complete,” Neal pointed out. 

“No, but it’s a start. And at least we know that Devore isn’t making this up. And that Alex Hunter’s a part of it – whatever ‘it’ is.”

Neal leaned back in his chair. “George still hasn’t said what he wants for the information. He’s got just less than year to go before he’s a free man. So something’s pushing him.”

“I’ll keep digging, boss.” Helen picked up the files and turned to leave.

Neal cautioned, “Be careful. You don’t know what’s going to crawl out from under any rocks you might tip over.”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” On that, she left.

The sounds of a busy office – keyboards and telephones, copiers and printers - became muted as five became six and six edged its way to seven. Neal checked the news; the subways were still a mess, so he sent a request to Carlo for a ride. Still no point in suffering.

Neal made the ten-step journey to Peter’s office, prepared for the same struggle he had this morning. “Car will be here in ten. Ready to pack it in?”

Peter looked up, the light from his monitor casting harsh shadows, carving deep lines in his face. “More than ready.” He shut down and collected a few files for home. Neal couldn’t remember the last time Peter was so eager to leave.

He waited until they were in the elevator. “What, no snide comment about the car service?”

His partner shook his head. “Not tonight – I am actually grateful for it.”

Now Neal was worried. But he didn’t ask – not yet. The car reached the ground floor and they badged out, waving to the night shift security.

One of Carlo’s drivers, actually his eldest son, Franck, was waiting for them at the curb. He opened the car door for them with a polite, “Good evening, sirs.”

Neal grinned at Franck, who winked back. As the car pulled into traffic, he turned to Peter. “What’s the matter?”

“We lost an agent.”

Neal froze in instant grief. “Who?”

“Mark Costa, out of the D.C. office. He was working undercover, trying to break a money laundering operation. His body was found dumped outside a warehouse off of Mott Street. He was cut open and strangled with his intestines. NYPD's investigating the homicide, but the FBI will be working it too.” The city lights illuminated the anguish on Peter’s face. 

“Did you know him?”

“No.” 

Not that it mattered; FBI agents were bound by the fraternity of their badge, their cause and commitment. The loss of one impacted all of them. Neal leaned in against Peter, pulling him close, they’d grieve together.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Thursday**

The whole office was in a strange state. Agent Costa’s death rattled everyone, even though he wasn’t on a case worked out of this unit, or even this field office. An FBI agent killed in the line of duty became everyone’s priority, and Malloy tapped Peter and his team to lead the hunt for his murderer. The boiler room sting was put on hold, and Peter couldn’t be happier about that. An agent’s death while undercover was his worst nightmare come to life.

Except that it really wasn’t the worst. That was yet to come

“Caffrey is the one best suited for this.” Malloy tapped a thick folder with CLASSIFIED seals on it. It was Nick Halden’s record. “He’s just updated it, and Halden’s background is perfect for this – he’s dabbled in money laundering, his stint in Asia …” 

“Japan, not Mainland China, sir,” Neal reminded him. 

“And yet, you speak Mandarin and Cantonese.” Malloy replied. “And Halden’s been managing money that’s come out of China during his time in the Caymans.”

Neal grimaced and Peter was relieved that he wasn’t going to just rush into this.

“I get the feeling that you don’t want this assignment, Agent Caffrey.”

“It’s not that, sir. It’s just that this whole thing feels rushed, and we don’t know why Mark Costa was killed – was his cover blown? And wouldn’t Nick Halden’s appearance be a little too convenient on the heels of his murder?”

“We’re counting on you to sell it, and sell it good. You don’t have to take this assignment, but frankly, you’re the best one for the job.” 

Neal’s lips twisted at Malloy’s obvious flattery. He clearly wasn’t buying it.

Peter asked, “What’s the game plan?” It was time to step in and take a role in this operation. 

Malloy gave them a rundown of what Costa had reported before his death. “Lao Shen is looking to wash a couple of million in cash every few months. Costa had initially made contact with Lao via a high-stakes Pai Gow game. Do you play?”

“I’m familiar with the principles of the game; it’s just been a while since I played.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to refresh your skills enough to step into a game tonight?”

“Tonight? You have got to be kidding me,” Peter exploded. “You can’t just drop an agent into an assignment like this.” He wasn’t being overprotective of Neal, he’d be just as outraged and worried about any agent put into this position.

“Agent Burke, dial it back. I know this isn’t the optimal situation, but we have a very small window of opportunity. Lao is going back to China tomorrow night – we either shut him down now, or we lose Costa’s murderer. Maybe for months, maybe forever.”

Peter looked over at Neal, who was intent on the case file. “Neal?”

“This stinks, and I think I’m walking into a trap – but how the hell can I live with myself when there’s a dead agent who needs justice?” Neal got up and paced over to the windows. “How do you plan to get Halden into Lao’s game?”

Peter’s heart sank as he listened to Malloy brief Neal. The "plan" was built on wet tissue and goose down, and to be done properly it needed at least two weeks’ worth of groundwork. But like Neal said, this was a fellow agent and he deserved justice.

“Lao will look to make contact with you after you’ve thrown a few hands. It’s a signal that you want to do business.”

“That seems, well, thin,” Neal commented. 

“It’s what was in Costa’s notes.” 

Peter pointed out, “Agent Costa’s dead. For all we know, he played the wrong hand and that’s why he was killed.”

Malloy ignored him and looked to Neal. “Agent Caffrey, it’s your choice. But I have to know now.”

“Right now?”

“In the next ten minutes.”

“Can you give us a few?” 

Malloy looked from Neal to Peter, a sympathetic expression on his face, and left the room.

Peter went to stand next to Neal, looking out at the heat-hazed skyline. “Well?”

“Like I said, is there really a choice here?”

“No, there isn’t.” Peter ducked his head, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the back of his throat. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” And then Neal did something that in nearly twenty years he’d never done before, here, in this office. He turned to face him and leaned his head on Peter’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around him. “You’ll be there with backup. This is a one-and-done thing. Either we have Lao tonight, or we don’t.”

“It’s a long shot.” Peter leaned his head against Neal’s, not caring at all about office decorum.

“I know, I know.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The operation, which seemed like the worst of Hail Mary plays, went off without a hitch. Neal played and didn’t play the right hands, and Lao appeared like clockwork.

The conversation moved to a private room where certain questions were delicately asked and answered with equal delicacy. Respect was offered and given and arrangements were made to transfer two million dollars into Halden’s Cayman-based hedge fund, with a return of five percent in six months. It was a small amount and a small return, but this was their first dance together. 

As Neal got up to leave, Lao casually asked him, “You keep up with the local news, Mr. Halden?”

Neal smiled, not knowing where this was going to lead. “I’m just back in New York; I haven’t had the chance to catch up.”

“Ah, then you didn’t hear about the terrible murder that happened right here in Chinatown. Just yesterday.”

He couldn’t believe that Lao was going to admit to Costa’s murder. Things didn’t happen like this. “No – I hadn’t. I had thought that New York was a safe place these days.”

Lao shrugged. “That may be. But it’s not safe for people who double cross me.”

“Sorry?” Neal all but held his breath.

“That man, he was working for a rival organization. He thought he could steal from me, damage my honor, my reputation. His masters needed to be taught a lesson. You steal from me, you will die, too.”

Neal swallowed. This wasn’t the complete admission he was hoping for. He fished a little more. “I am a banker, sir.” He bowed his head in a gesture of respect. “My word is my bond, and if my own honor and reputation are damaged – I have nothing.” 

“Your word is fine, but your life is more valuable. Take care you don’t end up like my last banker, gutted like a fish and strangled with his own entrails.” 

Neal bowed again and left, hoping like hell that Peter and the team got everything on tape. The details of Costa’s murder had never been released – Lao would only know what happened if he was the one who had Costa killed. 

Worried that Lao was having him tailed, Neal got into a cab and directed him to a large, anonymous hotel in Times Square. Neal checked in and contacted Peter and Malloy. They met him in his hotel room and to Neal’s relief, let him know that everything had been recorded, and they were already moving on the arrest warrants for murder and conspiracy.

Neal had to comment. “This shouldn’t have worked.”

“No, it shouldn’t have, Agent Caffrey. But it did. Why are you questioning it?” Malloy leaned back in his chair and stifled a yawn.

“Because the villains only confess like that on television, sir.” Peter answered for Neal, who wasn’t bothering to hide his own yawn. 

“Well, let’s just put this one in the win column and call it a day.” Malloy turned to Neal. “Good work, very good work, Agent. I will be talking to the Director and I am certain he’ll want to thank you personally.”

Neal just nodded and Malloy left. He buried his face in his hands, too exhausted to move now that the rush of adrenaline had passed.

Peter sat down next to him. “No reason why we couldn’t stay here tonight.”

“Mmmm.” Neal leaned into Peter, resting his head on his shoulder. “Sound like a good idea. You have all the good ideas, Peter. Why is that?”

“Don’t know.” Neal thought he just might start purring when Peter started combing his fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. 

“Come on.” Peter tugged him upright, and Neal wrapped his arms around him. 

In a rush of emotion, he had to say something. “I love you, you know. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He felt Peter’s breath hitch.

“I love you, too. I can’t imagine my life without you, either. I hope to god neither of us will ever have to find out.” The emotions in Peter’s voice matched his own feelings and his eyes prickled with tears.

He let Peter lead him into the bedroom, he let him care for him, undress him, ease him under the covers, make him comfortable. The words were there, Neal wanted to ask. He wanted to get up and go down on one knee and ask this wonderful man to be his husband.

But he was too damn tired.

Peter climbed into bed and settled down next to him. “We’re taking tomorrow off.”

“It’s after three, and tomorrow’s already here,” he muttered, relishing the feel of the other man’s body, his heat, the sense of utter security that was Peter Burke.

“Don’t know how you can be such a wiseass when you’re half asleep.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Friday**

It may have been the unfamiliar bed linens or the way the light angled into the room, but Peter woke in a disoriented panic. Vague memories of a bad dream chased the sleep away and he sat up, looking for Neal.

Peter threw back the covers, urgently needing to see him, to quell this irrational fear. His heart calmed when he heard a voice, Neal’s voice, coming from the suite’s outer room. There was a hotel robe conveniently tossed on the chair, and Peter put it on. It was a little damp – Neal must have put it on after his shower – but Peter didn’t mind. That Neal was up and about helped ease the panic.

When Neal opened the door and walked in, Peter’s distress evaporated. His partner, though dressed in yesterday’s suit, bore no resemblance to the weary, disheveled man from last night. He walked over to him and gave him a deep kiss. 

“Mmmm, morning breath. Delicious.”

He swatted at Neal, who tossed a package on the bed. “What’s this?” 

“Fresh shirt, tie, and underwear. No need to be a savage.”

Peter had to shake his head, and again when he looked at the contents of the bag. The shirt was Thomas Pink, the tie, Dior, and the underwear from Calvin Klein. “You’re ridiculous, you know. We’re a fifteen minute subway ride from home.”

There was no sting in those words. He knew Neal; he knew what mattered to him. And it wasn’t having a clean shirt and shorts because he couldn’t bear to wear yesterday’s clothes. This was his way of reasserting the normal. Peter understood the stress of an undercover operation, and yesterday was more than stress; it was walking blind into a situation that could have gone wrong in a heartbeat.

Neal interrupted that train of thought. “Go shower, get dressed. I’m going to take you out for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Peter didn’t realize just how late he slept.

“It’s after twelve, and if it were Sunday, we could call it brunch.” Neal grinned and rocked back on his heels.

“But it’s Friday.” 

"So it's lunch."

Peter shook his head, but followed Neal's orders. There was no reason not to.

He also had to admit that having clean clothes simply felt _good_. He'd been on too many stakeouts and operations that lasted from morning to night to morning again and longer. Yeah, they could have gone home, showered and changed, but sometimes it was good to step out of the ordinary.

Of course, living with Neal Caffrey meant that life was rarely ordinary.

Peter found Neal in the living room, talking on his cellphone. There was a bemused expression on his face, and he kept saying "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Neal must have heard Peter come in; he looked up and rolled his eyes. Finally, exasperated, he said, "Thank you, Director. But commendations for this operation must also go to Peter Burke and his team. He's standing right here, he'd be honored to hear from you."

As he took the phone from Neal, he mouthed _you little shit_. It was the Director. He did his own “Yes, sir-ing” and thanked the Director several times for his effusive praise before ending the call. “I guess we can’t skip this year’s Commendation Dinner, now.”

Neal grinned. “Why not?”

“Don’t get ideas.” He knew Neal was joking, but the temptation to blow off the annual event was strong. Peter’s stomach rumbled, “I thought you were going to buy me lunch?”

They ended up at a kosher deli on 46th Street, near Fifth, where Peter asked for a lox and onion omelet. Neal didn’t comment at all at his order, except to ask for the same thing.

“You going to go back to the office?” Neal asked around a bite of his omelet.

He shrugged. “I should. You?”

Neal shook his head. “I thought about it. Helen’s gotten some leads on this thing with Devore that I need to catch up on. But I’m not really inclined to rush that – not too keen on dancing to George’s tune.”

Peter understood. “We still have the boiler room case. Malloy will be green lighting that for next week.”

Neal put down his fork and scrubbed at his face. “I am not relishing another trip undercover quite so soon.”

“I know.” Peter reached out and took Neal’s hand. “Want me to find someone else?” He could, there was no lack of resources. “I’m sure, after yesterday, we can slot in another agent. Nick Halden isn’t the only moneyman at the Bureau’s disposal.”

Neal shrugged. “It was my plan; I need to play it through. Besides, nothing is happening until next week. I’m sure I’ll be back in fighting shape by then.”

Peter squeezed Neal’s hand and let go. “Whatever you want, we’ll work with that.”

Whatever Neal was about to say was cut off when Peter’s cellphone started to buzz. It was Stephen. 

“What’s up?”

_“Warrants were executed against Lao.”_

“I know that.”

_“It’s turned into a complete shitstorm. Apparently Lao’s offering to turn on his boss – he says he’s got all sorts of evidence. It seems that the guy’s pretty high up in the Chinese government food chain. If we take the deal, it means letting Lao walk. The U.S. Attorney’s office is fighting it, but there’s a lot of pressure coming down from State. Just thought you’d want to know.”_

“Damn. Damn, damn it to hell.” Peter thanked Stephen and disconnected. At Neal’s quizzical look, he explained.

“So that bastard’s going to walk out of here a free man?”

“Don’t know – he may have to deal with corruption charges in China.”

“Not right – he confessed to killing a Federal agent. That has to trump politics.” Neal’s outrage reflected his own.

Peter got up. “I’m going to head to the office. See what I can do to avert this disaster.”

Neal got up too. “I’ll go with you.”

“No – you should keep your head down. Let me work this with Malloy, okay?” 

“I can’t believe they’d let him go.” Neal pulled out his money clip, tossed a tip on the table, and went to the counter to pay the bill. “Are you sure you don’t want me back at the office?”

Peter cupped his cheek, his thumb sweeping across the dark circles under Neal’s eyes. “Go home, get some rest.”

Neal sighed. “Okay. But call me if you need me, I can be extremely persuasive, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. All too well.” Peter let Neal hail a cab for him; his ability to get a taxi, even during midday in the middle of a busy street, was legendary. 

He was about to get into the car when Neal dragged him close, kissing him hard. There were a few wolf-whistles from the passersby and Peter was a bit dazed when Neal let him go. “See you tonight.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal couldn’t believe that after everything, Lao could go free, or at least avoid prosecution here in the U.S., but he’d been an agent long enough to know that too often politics trumps justice. He was just glad not to have to be the one to explain to Mark Costa’s wife that her husband’s murder was getting a free pass.

But he put aside that problem in favor of something more pressing, and more pleasurable. Dov had sent him a text that the ring was ready. Neal didn’t bother with a reply; it was just a few minutes’ walk to his office on 47th Street.

“So, how are you?” Dov was especially jovial, and Neal thought – quite ironically – that if his beard was white, his friend would make an excellent Santa Claus.

“Tired, it’s been a rough few days.” 

“Then some coffee and rugelach will help, no?” He all but pushed Neal into a chair.

Still full from lunch, Neal really didn’t want anything to eat, but it would be rude to refuse. “Small cup, and just a raspberry one, if you have.”

Dov lumbered to the back, “Apricot okay?”

“Sure.” Neal closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the office. Someone was pecking away on a keyboard, the air conditioning clicked on. He thought he heard the whoosh of a steam cleaner. There were faint sounds of a conversation in Hebrew coming from the back – two of the cutters were congenially arguing about last night’s Mets game.

“Here you go.” 

Neal opened his eyes. Dov was standing there, small cup in one hand, small plate in the other, dark vest straining over his belly. “That smells good.”

“We have an espresso machine, now. Or, well, we’ve had it for a while, I just figured out how to work it.”

Neal took the cup and a careful sip. 

“Well?”

“Not bad, not bad at all.” Neal took another sip. It was pretty good.

Dov grinned and handed him the plate. “I suppose you want to see the ring?”

“Yeah. I like you, Dov. I enjoy your company, your coffee and your wife’s pastries, but I really want to see the ring.”

Dov reached into his vest pocket, fumbled a bit, and pulled out a tiny, paper-wrapped parcel. “I think – I hope – you’ll be pleased with this.” He handed it to Neal.

It was better than anything Neal expected. Elegant, understated, suitable in every way. He tipped the ring up to look at the inside finish, and was surprised to see an inscription. _I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine_.

“I took the liberty. I hope …” Dov’s voice trailed off.

“It’s perfect. It makes this perfect.” Neal swallowed. The absolute reality of what he was going to do set in. “You have a box?”

Dov rooted around for something more special that the typical black velvet box. He came up with a red leather affair, lined in satin. “This should work.” 

Neal carefully set the ring in the box, and the box inside his breast pocket – completely disregarding how it ruined the line of his jacket. There was no way he was carrying this in an outside pocket.

It wasn’t until he went to pull out his wallet that he realized something was wrong. “Damn.”

“What? What’s the matter?” Dov looked up from the receipt he was writing.

“I can’t use these to pay you.” Neal tapped the credit cards.

“You can’t tell me you’ve got problems with your credit cards, Mr. Moneybags.”

Neal flushed. “No – I was undercover last night. I didn’t have a chance to return these and pick up my ID and my own wallet.” It was late enough that he couldn’t get home and back before Dov closed for the day. Neal took the ring out of his pocket and put it on the desk. “I’ll have to come back on Monday for this.”

Dov picked up the box, put it in Neal’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it. “How long have we known each other? Do I think you’re not good for this?”

Neal put the ring back into his pocket. “Thank you.”

“I’m invited to the wedding, right?”

“Of course you are.” Neal hugged him, gratitude and affection strengthening his hold. Dov hugged him back, holding on until Neal said, “Get off me, you big homo.” 

They parted with laughter; Dov’s chasing Neal all the way down to the street.

Back at the apartment, Neal sat at his desk and looked at the ring. He closed his eyes and pictured himself sliding it onto Peter’s finger, kneeling down in the quiet hush of the restaurant and asking him if he would be his husband. A lump rose in the back of his throat, hard and powerful. He didn’t think Peter would say ‘no’, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be as enthusiastic.

He needed to talk to someone. He needed to talk to Uncle Joe.

Peter’s father picked up before the first ring ended.

_“What’s the matter, Neal?”_

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” It was always like this when Neal called during the day. He didn’t blame Uncle Joe for the panicked reaction.

_“You sure? This isn’t like you to call me twice in a week in the middle of the day.”_

Neal laughed. “Was it only Monday that we talked? Feels like it was a month ago.”

Uncle Joe laughed, too. _“I thought it was only old people like me who thought that time dragged.”_

“It’s just been a very busy week.”

_“But you and Peter, you’re okay?”_

“We’re fine.” Neal paused, unaccountably nervous. “I got a ring.”

The sigh on the other end of the line was a happy exhalation. _“When are you going to ask him?”_

“I was thinking tomorrow night. But …”

_“You don’t want to wait.”_

“It’s been on the tip of my tongue for a week, but I wanted the moment to be perfect.”

_“Neal, don’t wait for the perfect moment – it will become perfect when you ask Peter. My son loves you, he always has, and I can’t think of anything that will make him happier than being your husband.”_

Neal was struck by a memory. He was alone with Peter, under the bleachers after he and Moz rescued him from Matthew Keller’s blackmail attempts. Just before they kissed for the first time. He had told Peter they were meant to be. Did his sixteen year old self realize just how right those words were? Did he ever think that they’d still be together almost thirty years later?

“You’re right. I’m going to ask him tonight. I can’t wait.”

_“Call me afterwards, please?”_

Neal got a little choked at the slight pleading tone in Uncle Joe’s voice. “I wish you’d let me get you a place here, close by.”

_“Nah, you don’t need me living on your doorstep. Besides, I’m too old for a whirlwind life in the big city. I like it here, just fine. You boys are close enough to visit once or twice a month and far enough away that your nagging is limited to phone calls.”_

“And you can hang up on us, right.”

_“Always.”_

“See you on Sunday, right?”

_“Sunday?”_

“We’ve got Yankees tickets, remember?”

_“That’s right. Forgot all about that.”_

Despite Joe’s insistence that he could take the train to the Bronx, Neal promised to send a car for him. “You’re as stubborn as Peter.”

Joe laughed. _“And I thought he got that from his mother.”_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Joe Burke got up from his chair and walked over to the bookcase. There was a picture of Cathy there, his favorite one. She was holding Peter, who must have been all of six months old. Her eyes were sparkling, and joy and love radiated from her smile. He brushed his fingers over her lips.

“Can you believe it? They are going to get married! And it’ll be legal.”

Joe could hear the echo of his wife’s laughter in his memory.

“I know that it’s almost irrelevant – they’ve been together for a lifetime. But they have to – do you understand that? How can they not?”

Joe thought about his brother, how he died alone and broken because someone hated his very existence. The tears fell, unchecked. “I’m such an old man, Cath. I cry at the least thing.”

It was just another memory, but he could feel her arms around him, holding him as he finally told her about James. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Want to hear something funny? Neal’s going to ask Peter and Peter’s going to ask Neal and neither of them is expecting a marriage proposal.”

He took the photo and went back to his chair. “Talked to Peter a little while ago, he’s got a ring. Gave him yours, I hope you don’t mind. He says that Neal’s made reservations at some fancy restaurant tomorrow night, and he’s going to pop the question then. Neal’s got a ring, too. He just called to tell me. I know I probably shouldn’t have interfered, but I told Neal not to wait for tomorrow. To ask him tonight – he shouldn’t wait for a perfect moment.”

Joe laughed at himself. “Peter’s my son, and I probably should have let him do the asking. But I’m thinking that he should have the honor of being asked.” He set the picture down, pulled an old blanket over himself and eased the recliner back. He picked up the picture again, holding it close to his heart. “Love you, Cathy. I miss you.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter let himself into the apartment and smiled. Neal was in the kitchen, singing along to an old favorite.

_“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done.  
Lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more.”_

He stood there, leaning against the door frame and watched Neal do a reasonably awful air guitar solo. 

“Good thing you have a day job and are independently wealthy – because you’d never make a living as a rock musician.”

Neal must have been unaware of his presence, because the wooden spoon he was holding went flying. “Shit – when did you get home?” 

Peter bent and retrieved the utensil, tossed it in the sink and grabbed Neal by the waist, hauling him close for a deep kiss. “Just after the first chorus.”

Neal kissed him back and they bumped into the counter, then the refrigerator and it seemed like they were heading for another round of kitchen sex until Neal extricated himself. “No?” Peter was, to say the least, disappointed.

“No – not while dinner’s cooking.”

Peter finally noticed the pan on the stove and the assortment of knives on the counter. “Yeah, we have had our share of awkward-to-explain kitchen accidents.”

“Go, change. Shower if you want. Dinner will be ready in about twenty.”

He didn’t argue. There was something about Neal being domestic that he suddenly found slightly arousing. It wasn’t a gender thing, since they’ve been sharing household duties since college. Maybe it was the displacement of the Neal who wore designer suits like a second skin with this man, dressed in ancient khaki cargo shorts and his FBI Training Academy tee-shirt.

Peter went upstairs, and found some equally ratty clothes. His own tee shirt – from their Harvard days - was older than Neal’s. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, pleasantly surprised at how good he looked in it. He turned to look at his profile, admiring how the old cotton strained over his shoulders and chest and clung to his still-flat belly. “Not bad, Burke, not bad at all.” 

Of course, tomorrow night’s attire would be radically different. He was going to wear The Suit, the custom-tailored wool-silk suit that Neal cajoled him into having made a few years ago. _“It’s a classic, and classics never go out of style,”_ was his argument. The multiple fittings were an aggravation, Neal wouldn’t let him pay for it – it was a present – and of course his partner took great delight in telling him when he should wear his “birthday suit.” But Peter had to admit that he liked the way he looked, he liked the way Neal’s eyes would glaze over whenever he would first see him wearing it.

Tomorrow was going to be one of the most important nights of his life. He had the words ready, he knew just the moment when he was going to ask Neal to marry him, to make this last, final commitment. There would be a bottle of the finest Champagne, the quiet hush as the sommelier poured it into their glasses. The man would step back, and before Neal could raise his glass in a toast, he’d take his hand, raise it to his lips and ask him to be his husband.

Peter took a deep, shuddering breath. There was no question in his mind that Neal wouldn’t say ‘yes’.

“Hey, Peter – dinner’s ready.” Neal’s shout interrupted his reverie.

Downstairs, the table was set in the breakfast nook where they had most of their meals. There was a bowl of rice and another with the vegetable stir-fry that Neal had been working on when Peter came home. Neal was uncorking a bottle of wine and looked up when he heard Peter come in. “Would you get the glasses?”

Peter fetched the wine glasses and sat down. Neal joined him

“So, are you going to tell me what’s happening with Lao Shen, or are you going to make me wait for it?” Neal casually asked as he served Peter.

“It was something to see. Malloy called the Director, who got the Attorney General on the phone. The AG was about to go into a Cabinet meeting, and he said he would raise this to the Secretary of State – in front of the President, himself. Of course this whole debacle would make things dicey at the up-coming State Dinner, which is supposed to be in honor of the continued good relations between the United States and the People’s Republic. Lao wants immunity _and_ asylum.”

“Please tell me that’s not going to happen.”

“No, thankfully not. The AG pointed out something that should have been obvious – whatever evidence Lao may have would be useless here. And no one would seriously risk the diplomatic fallout from prosecuting a member of the PRC’s government in absentia.” Peter took a bite and swallowed. “Cooler, smarter heads prevailed. Lao’s been remanded without bail and the AUSA is now planning on filing capital murder charges.”

“Thank god. Has Costa’s family been told what happened?”

Peter nodded. “A fund’s been set up – they’ll have his pension and insurance, but that’s never enough.”

“Yeah, it never is.”

The conversation drifted along, touching on work, the political news, the Olympics – both men wholeheartedly agreed that had New York City won the bid for this year’s event, they would have requested temporary assignments to Fargo, North Dakota or someplace equally remote.

The radio played softly in the background, the classic rock station both men preferred. Neal was, of course, singing along – this time to Genesis – as they cleaned up. Peter washed, Neal dried, and the both boogied around the kitchen, putting the dishes away. Genesis segued to Peter Gabriel, followed by Phil Collins then into Billy Joel – ironically “Just the Way You Are.”

Neal grinned and spun him around, singing as they danced in each other’s arms.

_Don't imagine you're too familiar_  
And I don't see you anymore  
I wouldn't leave you in times of trouble  
We never could have come this far  
I took the good times, I'll take the bad times  
I'll take you just the way you are. 

The song came to an end and Neal reached over and turned off the radio. He sighed and smiled at Peter. Peter had to smile back – there was such a glow of happiness in his partner’s eyes. Neal leaned in and kissed him, just a brush of his lips. Peter would have deepened the kiss, but Neal stepped back and took Peter’s hand.

“I have a question for you.” Neal didn’t let go, and the smile on his lips was just a touch wary.

Peter had no clue what this was about. “Ask away.”

“Would you marry me?” Neal let go of his hand, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red box. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal slid the ring onto Peter’s finger and breathed a tiny sigh of relief. It fit perfectly. He looked up at Peter’s face, but instead of the warm, loving smile, the joy he expected to see, there was frustration and aggravation.

He dropped his lover’s hand and stepped back. “Peter? What’s the matter?” Neal swallowed, hurt and embarrassment rising like the tide. “Don’t you want to get married?” He breathed deep, trying to find a sense of calm. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

Peter blinked and whatever negative emotions he had been feeling disappeared in a blazing smile. He hauled Neal close, wrapping his arms around him, giving him an almost punishingly hard kiss. “Yes, yes and yes I want to marry you.”

Neal kissed him back, and took a small revenge for the moment’s distress by biting Peter’s lip. Peter growled and bit back. They may have had sex on the kitchen floor, or a countertop or the small table in the breakfast nook after all, but Peter broke away, grabbed his hand and pulled him up to their bedroom.

Neal had to ask, “Since when do we need a bed?” 

“Sit.” Peter pushed him into one of the club chairs next to the fireplace. “Don’t move.”

It was clear that despite Peter’s happiness at his marriage proposal, he was still upset about something. Neal watched as he fished around in his night table drawer. He stood up, stalked over to him and went down on one knee.

“Neal Caffrey, I have loved you almost as long as I’ve been alive. I can’t even begin to comprehend what my life would have been like without you in it. I would be honored if you would marry me and be my husband.” Peter’s voice cracked on those last words.

Neal reached out and brushed his fingers against Peter’s cheeks – tracing the line of tears. He blinked and felt a similar wetness. “Of course, of course I will.” 

Peter took his hand, and placed a small, red leather box in his palm. “I’ve had this for a week, I was going to ask you tomorrow night, at dinner. It was all planned, down to the moment.” He took the ring out of the box and slipped in onto Neal’s finger.

“Was that why you were so upset before?” Neal had to ask. He stood up and pulled Peter off of his knees, up and into his arms.

Peter rested his head on his, his snort of laughter ruffling his curls. “Yeah – and I’m sorry about that. I just wasn’t expecting your proposal; I wasn’t expecting you to beat me to the punch.”

They gravitated towards the bed, stretching out together, Neal’s legs tangling with Peter’s, Peter’s hand a warm weight on his belly. Neal held his hand up and looked at the ring.

“Hmmm, is this your mother’s stone? From her engagement ring?”

“Yeah, and I can’t believe you recognized it.”

Neal rolled over and tucked his head into Peter’s shoulder. “I asked your dad if I could have it. I wanted to use it for your engagement ring.”

Peter was looking at his, letting the stone capture the light. He dropped his hand. “What did my dad say? Did he tell you he gave me the ring?”

“No, when I asked him on Monday – ”

“Monday? You just asked my dad for the ring just this last Monday?”

Neal felt a little sheepish. “Yeah – after reading that bullshit from the Chick-fil-a guy – about how marriage should only be between a man and a woman – I realized that we needed to do this. That I loved you too much not to do this. Am I making any sense?”

Peter didn’t seem to hear that last bit. “You just decided on Monday that you wanted to get married?”

“Hmm, yeah. That a problem?”

“No, but I’ve been thinking about it for months. Since the Marriage Equality Act was passed. Dad even told me that I should have this made into an engagement ring for you.”

Neal had to laugh. “That old conniver. I asked him for your mother’s ring, and he said he didn’t have it anymore. I thought maybe he lost it, or he had sold it.”

“My dad? Mr. Sentimental? Sell my mother’s ring? Not happening. He gave it to me about six months ago – said we should think about getting married. I went to see your friend Dov. He made the setting, and I picked it up Monday afternoon.”

“What!” Neal untangled himself from Peter. He wasn’t angry – just flabbergasted. “You went to see Dov Hershkovitz? On 47th Street?”

“Yeah – your friend, the one who dropped out of Harvard Law? Saw him about three weeks ago, had coffee and those incredible little pastries his wife makes while he designed the setting.” Peter gasped, realizing why Neal was asking. “You went to Dov, too?”

“On Tuesday, after Helen and I got done with Devore at Hawthorne Fed. Had coffee and rugelach with Dov and his grandfather before I picked out the stone. Now I know why he rushed to get your ring done.” Neal flopped back. “I kept wanting to ask you, that’s why I made dinner reservations for tomorrow night.”

“Then why didn’t you wait?” Peter wrapped his arms around him again.

“I spoke to your dad this afternoon; he said I shouldn’t. I didn’t need the perfect moment and I should ask you tonight. I was going to wait until we were relaxing – but after dancing with you in the kitchen, I couldn’t wait. It _was_ the perfect moment.”

“And guess what? I also spoke to my father today, too. He told me that I should propose to you over dinner tomorrow night. He was emphatic that you deserved a truly romantic moment.” Peter’s laugh was one of exasperation. “We’ve been played.”

“Does it matter? We’re getting married.” Neal sighed and worked his hand up under Peter’s tee-shirt, resting it against his heart. He felt himself starting to breathe in rhythm to its steady beat, the stresses of the busy week, and the anticipation of the moments that just passed, faded away. Peter’s hand slid under his own shirt, warm and weighty against his back.

Neal sighed, wholly content. _We’re getting married._

There was nothing more that needed to be said.

__

FIN


End file.
